


Two-and-ten

by SimplyLucia



Series: About Robert's Rebellion [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle Scenes, Child Death, Drama, Gen, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Casterly Rock to the Sack of King's Landing, the first times of a lonely, quick-tempered twelve-year-old boy during Robert's Rebellion. How did Sandor become a soldier in a kingdom put to fire and sword? A few original characters in a background faithful to the books and a goal of character realism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Orphan

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> A huge 'thank you' to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights. Nothing of this would exist without your help, dear!
> 
> I first posted this story about Robert's Rebellion - on another site - intertwining Sandor's POV with Eddard Stark and Jon Connington's version of these events. This fiction is entirely focused on Sandor and the changes that affected him when he was twelve-year-old.
> 
> Reviews are welcome!

Footsteps echoed in the spiral staircase and as they seemed to come closer, he did his best to lie there on the pallet, perfectly still under the rough blanket someone had tossed on his curled up form. The wet cloth on his forehead, supposed to reduce his fever, had slipped and blinded him. His heart skipped a beat when the door creaked open.

"The orphan is here," a harsh voice said.

There was nothing pleasant or kind in this masculine voice. It only described his situation: a boy who had lost his father and ended up in this strange and big castle where nobody waited for him. He was a fool if he ever expected to find compassion in this voice.

"And what do you want me to do with him?" a second man asked.

This voice was different; softer, yet determined and straightforward. A commander's voice exuding impatience. This one had forgotten a long time ago what it was to have his orders questioned. _Could it be him? Please don't send me back to Gregor..._

"Why do you ask?" the first man replied. "If I speak my mind, you won't listen to me. You never listen to my advice..."

"I have no time for this, Gerion. I asked you what you wanted to show me in the maester's tower and said you'd better not waste my time."

No matter who he was, he didn't need to raise his voice to make everyone feel his anger.

"Is he dead?" he added, without the slightest hint of concern or curiosity. His tone revealed all this bored him: the never-ending staircase, the grim room, the form laying on the pallet.

"No, he's not, though he collapsed at the gates. How far is Clegane keep? Thirty, maybe forty miles, as the raven flies. I guess the boy didn't eat for some days," Gerion said.

The man's suppositions were not wrong, but he was wide of the mark. Sandor heard slow footsteps coming closer and someone stopping in front of the pallet.

"Let's have a look at him," the smooth voice commanded.

A hand grabbed the woolen blanket, exposing his ragged figure and the cloth was removed, leaving a wet trail on his face. His limbs were shaking, but he clenched his jaw and tried not to move. When he opened his eyes, he saw Tywin Lannister leaning over him. Long-legged and fair-haired, The Warden of the West, former Hand of the King, looked like a bird of prey with his aquiline nose. Until that day, he had only seen his father's liege lord twice, and only caught sight of him: he wasn't supposed to meet such an important man, he was only his father's youngest son. _And Father didn't want me to take away Lord Tywin's appetite if he ever looked at my face._ On the left, a younger version of Tywin waited for his orders. Tywin Lannister was staring at him but his green eyes didn't really see him, they focused on his scars. He didn't seem like he was ready to vomit his dinner, though.

"So, it was true," Tywin stated. "Burnt from hairline to chin on one side. And that? Is this his bone I see on his jaw?"

The lord of Casterly Rock had spoken about him as if he was not here, ignoring his pleading eyes. Worse still, under this unsettling gaze, he felt like an animal or an object Tywin Lannister had come upon. The man had not decided yet what he would do with him. His heart beat wildly as he realized this was perhaps his only chance to stay alive. Forgetting his fever and his weak limbs, he tried to sit up on the pallet but hardly managed to lean on his forearms.

"Send him back to his brother. We shouldn't even discuss about it. We should mind our own business."

He didn't know this voice, didn't even know there was someone else; this one must have stayed in some corner by the door because he couldn't see him behind the two other men.

"Seven Hells, Kevan!" Gerion exclaimed. "You know who did _that_ to him. You know who killed Clegane."

"We don't know anything," the third man retorted, coming closer. As soon as he stopped beside Gerion, Sandor saw another version of Tywin Lannister, with rounded shoulders and a massive jaw. "If we take for granted every gossip peasants spread about Gregor Clegane..."

"Why do you think this boy ran away?" Gerion insisted. "And you want to send him back to his brother? Is it a joke or something?"

"Gregor is now my Bannerman," Tywin pointed out. There was no emotion nor stance in his words, only facts.

"I'm sorry," Gerion said, losing his temper, "but as his liege lord, you have to protect your Bannermen and you have to judge them. And by the laws of gods and men, your precious Gregor is a kinslayer. What kind of message do you send to your other Bannermen? 'Kill your father if you feel like it, as long as you're loyal to me'?"

Anger and disgust made Gerion's face ugly and twisted his mouth. After all, when the youngest son of Tytos Lannister stood for him as he did, he was fighting two men at a time. An unfair fight: he should help Gerion. However, he felt so weak he struggled to stay still and tried to ignore the growing pain in his sore arms. He had to do something quickly.

"I can be useful, my lord," he said, locking eyes with Tywin. "I know how to fight. My father told me."

Kevan burst out laughing.

"Do you hear that?" he asked. "The brat's voice didn't even break!"

Sandor was aware his voice was still high-pitched but he was more than that; he was tall and well-built for a boy of his age. _And I learnt how to fight: there's not a squire in Westeros who has as many reasons as I have to learn swordplay._ Fever had made his eyes glisten and his cheeks red a while ago, but weakness had vanished as soon as Kevan Lannister expressed his disregard and there was only anger growing in him, tensing his muscles and distorting his features.

"How old are you, boy?" Kevan asked, repressing a smile.

"I'm two-and-ten, my lords. But I'm strong. And my father taught me everything about swordplay."

He didn't mean it, but his voice, high-pitched as ever, sounded like he was pleading. _I swear I'll never beg someone again. Not in my entire life._ He clenched his jaw when he understood that he could burst into tears. _Crying is for girls. I'm done with crying._

"He survived," Gerion stated, talking about him as if he was not here. "He's a tough one."

Tywin nodded; at least, his head moved slightly and made him feel suddenly more confident. The lord of Casterly Rock stood there, perfectly still for a while, his brothers waiting for his decision in an attitude revealing they were used to his silences.

"I have to think about it," Tywin finally said. "Give the boy some food. He will have a bath, too: he stinks. For now, I have more important matters to decide than the future of a boy."

Tywin Lannister turned around and walked away, his brother Kevan on his heels. The door creaked, there were footsteps in the spiral staircase and he was alone with Gerion.

* * *

 

After a bath, the fever was gone, he felt terribly hungry. When Gerion said the word 'kitchens', he couldn't help salivating and he gratefully followed the young man out of the grim room. Gerion ran down the stairs and only looked back once outside. They crossed the yard and Gerion waved at some men, pinched a squire's ear and seemed to forget him until they reached the pointed arch that lead to the kitchens. Long before they passed the threshold, when they were still walking in the dusty yard, Sandor could smell grease and onions, teasing him like Gerion had pinched the squire. He was starving and wouldn't be able to eat cleanly. He took a sharp intake of breath, tried to swallow the smell of roasting meat and came in.

He had never seen something like this; in a room whose dimensions equaled those of his father's hall, an army of cooks and servants ran from the hearth to the wide oak table, poured water, cut turnips, shelled peas, but only one, a big woman with grey hair tasted the dishes and gave orders. Smoke crept over one side of the big room, but nobody seemed to notice it, as the big woman wiped her hands on her apron, then waddled to the hearth, scrutinized the pork roasting on the spit and yelled at the other ones. The boys and girls around her hurried to the hearth, fearful and docile. Finally, the big woman turned around.

"What is it you brought me, m'lord?" the fierce woman said to Gerion, a cheeky look on her face. Sandor noticed her pale eyes and her straight hair escaping her head kerchief, as she stood a few yards from them, her hands on her massive hips. Gerion didn't react despite her lippy attitude; with a deft flourish, he showed Sandor, told her to give him some food and walked away.

"Do you have a name, boy?" she asked. Her voice sounded as soft as the smoke that made him cough.

"Sandor, of House Clegane."

He stepped forward. When they heard his name, some of the servants froze and stared at him. The big woman cursed in an undertone and squinted her eyes to see his features in the dim light. She wanted to catch a glimpse at his scars, but she seemed disappointed by what she saw; after bathing, he had flattened his long dark hair on the burnt side of his face. A valueless measure.

"He's burnt!" a scrawny girl exclaimed, sucking in deeply.

"Aye, he's burnt," the big woman said. "And I'm fat, for all I care."

She waddled toward him and gestured to the long table dividing the room in two.

"Have a sit, then. Fat Jeyne, they call me. Guess why." She turned around and pointed at the scrawny girl. "Maria, you stupid little wench, bring some stew!" When she gave orders, she seemed to caw like the ravens his father kept to send messages.

The scrawny girl didn't dare to look at him when she brought back a steamy bowl of stew; she put it on the table quickly, then almost ran away and he heard her giggling with her companions crowded near the hearth. Fat Jeyne gave him some brown bread and stood next to the table. Sandor shifted on the bench, ill-at-ease, but he was starving and the rich smell of pork stew was too tempting. He began to gobble down his food, forgetting Fat Jeyne and the boys and girls working in the kitchens, squeaking like mice. Once his bowl was empty, Fat Jeyne filled it with more stew and he went on. If the big woman took his gluttony as a tribute to her cooking, she was wrong: he only wanted to build up his strength, just in case. As long as someone offered him some food, he couldn't refuse. He finally granted Fat Jeyne with a sheepish look.

Two years ago, his little sister had found a rawboned cat nearby Clegane Keep and she had given him scraps. The damn cat had eaten greedily, finishing a surprising amount of food. He remembered his sister's fascinated look in front of the young animal, who used to eat when he could and starve when there was nothing for him. The cat's green eyes revealed he didn't know what to expect from his sister and himself. Were they able to keep him as a pet or did they like to hurt animals? The cat looked at them suspiciously, scratching his ruined ear. After a while, when his little sister confessed him how she loved the cat and how happy he would be with them in Clegane Keep, he understood what he had to do. He caught the skinny animal, put it in some bag and rode as far as he could before dropping the beast in the woods. If his sister had something she loved, Gregor would destroy it, and the thought of his sister's reaction was unbearable. Pretend the cat ran away was easier. It was two years ago, when Gregor only killed animals.

Sandor felt like the cat right now, nauseous because he had eaten too much and unable to read Tywin Lannister's intentions. He didn't know either what to think about Fat Jeyne who was now smiling; was she trying to be nice with him or was she just stupid?

  
  



	2. Squires

 

His opponent was the youngest squire Casterly Rock housed, a boy of four-and-ten, the fifth son of Lord Serrett. A despising look on his face, the young Harry Serrett of Silverhill hid his dull blond hair under a helm looking too big for him.

Fighting Sandor in the dusty yard of Casterly Rock irritated him: first of all, the orphan of Clegane's Keep was not a squire, not even a page ; he was a child, compared to the young Serrett who had learned swordplay with a master-at-arms in his lord father's castle. Worse still, Sandor was the second son of a minor house, while the Serretts boasted about being one of the principal houses sworn to the Lannisters.

When Sandor went past him to fetch his weapons, he heard Serrett barking and howling. In the Westerlands, everyone knew how the Cleganes had become landed knights, how the kennelmaster of Casterly Rock once saved Tywin's father from being killed by a lionness, losing three dogs and a leg in the effort. It was a tale people whispered when they saw the sigil of House Clegane, three black dogs on a yellow field reminding the dry autumnal grass where the hounds gave their lives for Tytos Lannister. Sandor's grand-father was a kennelmaster overnight raised to nobility; among the noble houses of the Westerlands, the Cleganes would always be low-born. A boy of ten-and-two belonging to such a minor house was not worthy of Harry Serrett of Silverhill. Serrett made no mystery about it but he couldn't disobey Gerion who was his master.

_Peacock_ , Sandor thought, glaring at the young Serrett. It was not even an insult, since Harry waved a wooden shield adorned with a peacock in his pride. House Serrett's words were 'I have no rival'. _We'll see._

Tywin Lannister had almost forgotten Sandor after his visit to the maester's tower. Someone had told Sandor that he could sleep in the same room with Kevan's page, a sickly boy of ten, and a maid had tossed a pallet on the floor for him. Things changed the day Gregor send a raven to Casterly Rock; Gregor said he wanted his brother back and Tywin suddenly remembered a boy hiding his scars under black hair wandered in his castle.

If he didn't wake up before sunrise – he got into the habit in Clegane's Keep, because Gregor was still asleep at dawn and he could come and go in the towerhouse – he wouldn't have met Gerion in the corridor next to the kitchens, nor learn that Tywin wanted him to prove his skills. He suspected he would be better than his opponent, but what if he failed?

A knot in his stomach – the cabbage soup Fat Jeyne had given him didn't help – he got back to the room where he slept and sat on his pallet. Kevan's page mumbled something in his sleep and Sandor shook his head. He had to collect himself and remember all the things his father had taught him. For hours, he didn't move and mentally got back to Clegane's Keep's yard, where he used to practice swordplay. The impending fight brought to his mind the smallest hole in the uneven ground of the yard, every piece of advice his father had given him, every move he had done while facing Gregor.

The lazy page rubbed his eyes, got dressed and left their room long before he decided to go downstairs. Once in the large ocher yard, Sandor realized how his opponent despised him and it only gave him another reason to fight.

Thus, he was waiting in the midday sun for Tywin to come. Under Kevan's command, an older squire helped him with a padded armor and a hauberk. The damn chain-mail shirt was a bit short for him, but he kept his mouth shut and took the lumpy visor-less helmet the squire hold out to him.

People began to gather around them, more than happy to entertain themselves; Symon, the master-at-arms was there of course, with the pages and the squires, a dozen serving men in addition to them; some of the maids escaped Fat Jeyne's watchfulness and sneaked out of the kitchens. The crowd started to talk about the fight's outcome and some bet copper coins on the young Serrett. Gerion and Kevan as well waited for the Lord of Casterly Rock. Each one took sides; while Kevan whispered to Serrett's ear and patted his shoulder in a paternalistic way, Gerion stood behind Sandor, silent, yet scowling at his brother.

Finally, as he was wondering if this fight would take place, Tywin arrived. Sandor didn't see him at first, but he noticed something had changed in the eyes of the bystanders and a hasty retreat of the kitchen maids warned him the Great Lion of the Rock was there. Tywin forced himself through the crowd and glared at a squire who was tossing a few coins to the master-at-arms.

"I wager that Serrett will make the pup cry for his mother," the squire said, unaware of Tywin's gaze. Someone nudged at the squire and he bit his lip. With his hands folded in his back, Tywin turned to Sandor.

"You told me you could be useful and you knew how to fight. Very well. Are you ready to fight Serrett in loyal combat?"

"Aye, my lord," he replied.

Some of the men burst of laughing.

"Did you hear this grating voice?" the master-at-arms exclaimed. "He's a babe! Rather tall for his age, maybe... Serrett, you're fighting a babe!"

Tywin's sharp look stopped the man immediately; he motioned his hand and the fight began. Emboldened by the shouting men, Serrett threw himself on him but dropped his guard; Sandor easily struck back and made the squire retreat. He looked at the peacock boy's eyes and saw nervousness, but around them, the watchers still bellowed Serrett's name and not his. _What do I want? Having them supporting me or just winning the fight and see this rat squeaking in the dust?_

He attacked Serrett and all of a sudden, the watchers' screaming changed. Some shouted their head off in disappointment, because they had bet on the peacock squire, others gave advice to Serrett. No one cried his name. Far from disheartening him, the situation infuriated Sandor: holding tight the pommel of his sword, he began to destroy the painted shield and soon there was nothing left but the offended head of the peacock, still protecting the squire's hand. Panic-stricken, Serret stepped back and stumbled. On all fours, then on his back, the squire waved his hand until he got rid of the ridiculous shield Sandor had pulverized and lost his sword in the effort. However, a disarmed enemy wouldn't be enough by Sandor's father's standards; he pushed aside the squire's sword and drove his to the panting boy's throat. Unable to speak, his armored chest heaving, the proud Serrett begged Sandor with his eyes and looked at the blade. Around them, the men went silent.

Sandor turned slightly to face Tywin and what he saw elated him. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not smiling, nor anxious about the terrified squire who had lost both the fight and his pride. He seemed impressed and the sparkle of interest Sandor caught in his eye was the sweetest thing he had seen for a while.

"Let go with him," Tywin commanded. "We'll see if we can find you a worthy opponent."

Sandor stepped back and sheathed his sword, but froze when a man pointed at Serrett.

"Seven Hells! Serrett pissed his pants!"

On the brownish sand of the yard, a darker puddle widened between the squire's legs.

"Serrett pissed his pants, Serrett pissed his pants!" the men exclaimed.

They said it over and over, as the wretched squire pushed himself from the ground and ran away. The sentence, repeated, chanted, sounded like a nursery rhyme. Tywin shushed the assembly, then looked around, trying to find who would be Sandor's next opponent.

"You," he finally said to the squire who had helped Sandor with his equipment. "Find a padded armor and a hauberk."

This one was older than Serrett, probably almost seventeen. _Gregor's age._ He was a bit taller than Sandor, and far more experienced.

"This is a cruel game," Gerion protested, walking briskly toward Tywin. "Peckledon will be knighted soon and-"

"I disagree. We need to know if the lad has the guts," Kevan retorted. "After all, he said he wanted to fight. Who will he fight, once in the battlefield? Knights, most likely. Let's have some fun."

Sandor intended to have fun, too. As Peckledon put on his padded armor and a chain-mail shirt which seemed his, not something borrowed from the master-at-arms, he observed him. Peckledon glanced back at him from time to time without showing his apprehension if he ever was ill-at-ease. Gerion came back to Sandor and brushed his arm thickened by the padded armor.

"You're quick," he told Sandor. "You're quick, but sometimes you need to have a good look at your opponent. Agility is good, but only once you've taken your time and understood his weaknesses. You did well, though."

"Thank you, Ser."

Twenty feet separated him from Peckledon, who was fastening his helmet.

"Left shoulder," Gerion whispered.

He said it without looking at him, careful not to be heard by the other ones. Sandor barely nodded, wondering why Gerion Lannister himself would help him this way. 

Among the men watching the fight, he saw a very young boy, with golden hair framing his strange little face. He knew Tywin Lannister's youngest son was a dwarf and his father rejected him. The dwarf boy limped along toward Gerion, who frowned at him and told him he shouldn't be there. Ignoring his remark, the boy shrugged and positioned himself next to his uncle, seeking the best spot to attend the impending fight. The vision of this child so small, so frail with his twisted legs struck Sandor. _He would never have survived in Clegane's Keep. I may be burnt, but at least I'm tall and strong._ He noticed that the viewers curious gaze focused on the dwarf boy instead of him. _I guess I'm not the only monster in this castle._

Tywin gestured once again and the fight began. This time, his opponent seemed cautious and observed him for a while before feinting. Sandor knew the Lannisters watched every thrust he made and appreciated it; the atmosphere was different from the first fight, because nobody dared to bet on either of the boys and because the outcome was uncertain. Tension filled the corner of the dusty yard where they were challenging each other.

"He's gifted," Tywin commented, after Sandor's counterattack. "Very agile."

"He's more than that," Gerion added. And for once, Kevan didn't find anything wrong with it.

After a few minutes, Sandor struck Peckledon on his left shoulder; he had hesitated, but finally realized Gerion had given him this advice so that he could take advantage of it. The older boy winced in pain. A few more blows and his opponent was on his knees. There were no shouts, no cheers. _What did I expect?_ Instead of praising him, squires and grown men looked at him with distrust.

"You stay, for the time being," Tywin eventually said. "You'll be Ser Kevan's squire. You already share his page's room." And that was all.

As he took off the hauberk and the padded armor, he heard men talking about him.

"He's Gregor Clegane's brother. The one Prince Rhaegar knighted a while ago."

"Clegane's brother? Seven save us! Now I understand why he defeated the two older boys. He's a monster. Cleganes are monsters."

 


	3. Chastised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lock Clegane in the dungeon. That's for ruining a future knight's face. Water and bread, five days. That's for disturbing me when I work late."

He was sleeping a dreamless sleep when a pair of hands seized him and dragged him on the wooden floor across his room. Tybolt, the young page who slept beside him, began to scream in fear and protested, but someone commanded him to keep quiet. Sandor thrashed about, but the intruder – it was dark and he couldn't see anything – pinned him to the ground and pummeled his face and his rib cage. He winced in pain and tried to bite whoever was attacking him.

There were two persons now; one lay on top of him, making sure he didn't move, and gagged him while the other one kicked his bare legs. Lying on his belly, he couldn't do anything: when he extended his arm to reach something useful – a stick, a chamber pot, anything with which he could hit them – his hand met his attacker's heel and the gag muffled his shouting. _Why?_

“Let's turn him over, for a change,” a hissing voice suggested above him. “Tybolt, give us some light.”

“What do you plan to do?” the other one growled in Sandor's ear.

There was an ominous silence and a hundred thoughts crossed his mind, as he wondered who they were and what they wanted from him.

“Take a piss,” the first voice replied.

All of a sudden, Sandor realized who they were and why they had something against him. _Serrett and Peckledon. They didn't stomach their defeat. Serret blames me for his humiliation._ As pressure on his back seemed lighter, he understood this might be his only chance to escape them.

“I drank a lot tonight,” Serrett said. “Made sure my bladder was full for the bastard.”

The knight-to-be gave a raucous laughter in anticipation and slowly raised, his big hand still on his victim's back. Sandor's elbow reached his jaw and Peckledon fell with all his weight on the floor. When Sandor got on his feet, the page had finally lit the candle and fear made Serrett recoil.

Defeating two older boys one after the other was not enough; they came for him at the same time, at night, taking him unawares. Their cowardice almost elated him. _Father would have loved that._ Lord Clegane would have been proud, though he was not generous with paternal pride. _Buggers! As if it was the first time someone intended to beat me up in the middle of the night..._

Tybolt cowered on his pallet, while Sandor threw himself on Serrett and began to hit indifferently his face, his stomach and his chest. However hard Serrett protested, his whining didn't covered his accomplice's groan.

“I won!” Sandor said and his voice, distorted by anger, sounded even more high-pitched. “You hear me? I won,” he repeated, careless of the racket they made.

The door suddenly creaked open and Kevan Lannister's massive figure appeared. He only wore a pair of breeches.

“What's going on, here?” he shouted.

“My teeth, Ser, the Clegane boy broke my teeth!” Peckledon complained, crawling to the door.

“Help me!” Serrett begged. “He assaulted us.”

No matter how absurd it seemed, Serrett repeated Sandor had attacked them in his own room. How they came in and why he would beat bloody two older boys didn't seem to disturb the squire.

“He lies!” Sandor replied, “They sought revenge after I defeated them. I was asleep when they came and started beating me.”

He hit the high note, once more, his girlish voice exuding fury.

“Very well. Tell me then why I found you thumping Serrett when I came in? Tell me who broke Peckledon's teeth – and probably his nose?” Folding his arms over his little paunch, Kevan ignored Sandor's bruises, and slowly turned to Tybolt. “What did you see, boy?”

Frightened, the boy cringed.

Without any other warning than slow footsteps in the corridor, Tywin arrived; Sandor noticed he was fully dressed, whether he didn't left his room before putting his clothes on or didn't go to bed yet.

“I found Clegane's son beating up the two squires, but he persists in saying they started the fight,” Kevan told his elder brother, stepping aside so that Tywin could look at the messy room and assess the damage. “I always told you too many pages and squires in Casterly Rock was a problem-”

“Not now, Kevan. Why would Clegane beat them in his room, in the first place?”

_Father always praised Tywin's intelligence. He understands what happened. He won't punish me._

“My page saw everything,” Kevan said. “What did you see, Tybolt?”

Tybolt shook his head and gave them a poor excuse.

“I don't know... I didn't see anything. I was asleep,” he whimpered.

“Children quarreling,” Kevan summed up. “I'll tell Symon to flog Serrett and Peckledon until they bleed. Thirty whip lashes for Clegane.”

“No,” Tywin said coldly. _He believes me._ Sandor suddenly felt relieved. “Serrett and Peckledon did attack him. Have them whipped, if you feel like it. Lock Clegane in the dungeon. That's for ruining a future knight's face. Water and bread, five days. That's for disturbing me when I work late. Send him to the maester first; he'll have a look at his black eye.”

* * *

 Back in the maester's tower, he felt ill-at-ease. Casterly Rock's maester, a frail creature with a grey beard, deaf in one ear and smelling of thyme and herbs, had been waken up in the middle of the night. The old man rubbed his eyes and yawned once in a while: a mute reproach to the young trouble maker Kevan Lannister had commanded him to examine. Shambling on the creaky wooden floor, the old man lit all the candles and gestured to the pallet. Sandor sat there bare-chested and let the maester scrutinize the bruises on his arms, legs and rib cage.

“Contusions,” the maester said with a quavering voice. “Nothing serious. Lie down.”

The old man stared at his face for a minute and Sandor understood he didn't care for his black eye. He clenched his jaw, waited and prayed the Seven, if they ever existed, to help him. The old man brushed his dark hair aside, to gaze at his scars and the scent of thyme became stronger.

Though he avoided mirrors, Sandor had quite a good idea of what his burnt side look like: when healing, the skin had turned into something thick and red. There were craters oozing pus and, by places, his scars cracked. More than five years after he got burnt, there had been no improvement and he looked like a monster. A cursed boy, some peasants near Clegane's Keep said. He didn't need a bonehead maester to remind him his disfigurement.

“What happened?” the old man asked.

His bluntness made Sandor jump. People were usually so frightened or disgusted by his face they never asked for details. _Father already gave them details._ How his bedding had caught fire and wounded his youngest son. _Convenient details everyone prefers to the truth_ , he thought bitterly. The bleary-eyed maester nodded to encourage him.

“My pallet caught fire. Thought I had blown the candle out,” Sandor replied.

The old man neither commented his answer nor took care of his black eye; he stayed there, leaning over him in the flickering light a dozen candles provided and had a careful look at his face. At first, Sandor felt angry and clenched his fists, repressing the urge to beat him. The maester blinked from time to time, trying to adjust his old eyes to the dim light; under his insistent gaze, he was vulnerable. He yielded to this feeling of weakness and closed his eyes tightly.

As the maester's look lingered on him, he realized the man could read his scars and knew for sure what had happened the day he had played with Gregor's discarded toy. Perhaps someone had whispered to the maester the rumors leaking out of Clegane's Keep, perhaps he was more sagacious than the other ones: he knew the truth all the same. Sandor hated him for gazing at his scars and seeing right through him.

When the old man applied balm on his black eye, his muscles tensed up in the tremendous effort he made to conceal his feelings. I want to be as still as a stone; no grimace, no smile, nothing he could use against me. In the end, the smell of thyme faded and he became aware the maester was done with him; he opened his eyes and saw the man bending over a table to reach a cloth and clean his hands. Sandor didn't wait for his command to get on his feet, he grabbed his clothes and he walked to the door, deliberately forgetting to give his thanks.

* * *

 _Five days_ , Tywin had said. Five days seemed like five years to him. As long as he remembered, Sandor loved to live in the open air. He was certainly not cramped for room in the large twenty feet high cell Kevan Lannister locked him in, but he missed daylight and the caress of a gentle breeze on his face.

He heard men shouting and the shrieking voices of pages in the yard, carts lugged around and swords clanging together: that was how he knew it was daytime. At dusk, the only noise came from the birds of prey chasing nearby: he remembered his father's lessons and recognized ospreys and falcons thanks to their cry. Later on, lying on the straw, he listened to the owls screeching.

He couldn't even complain: the dungeon didn't stink nor was filthy and he had a bucket as a replacement for a chamber pot. On the second day, a young crippled servant offered him a basin of water, so that he could wash his face and hands. There wasn't even mice in his cell to keep him company: Tywin would not tolerate rodents in the castle. All the rooms he had visited so far were as clean and tidy as possible, revealing the Lord of Casterly Rock's high sense of order. Nothing to do with the pigsty Gregor had once shut him in for two days, taking advantage of their father's absence.

_Bread and water._ He was not new to lack of food but he had plenty of time to think about his hunger and to listen to his stomach gurgling. He salivated every time the crippled servant entered, bearing a torch and a plate; the contents of his dish hardly changed. It was either brown or black bread, nothing nourishing enough for a boy of two-and-ten. Sitting on the rather fresh straw, he wrapped his arms around on his knees and waited.

Serrett and Peckledon would not attack him again. _Once bitten, twice shy; and on top of that, they are both cowards._ However, something puzzled him, more than the other squires' mute hostility or Kevan's distrust: why in Seven Hells Tywin had punished him if he knew he didn't start the fight? _'That's for ruining a future knight's face, that's for disturbing me when I work late'_ : dubious explanations, really. There had to be another reason, but the meaning of all this eluded him.

On the late afternoon of the third day – the master-at-arms' booming voice was gone and the squires didn't shriek anymore – a key rattling in the keyhole startled him. It wasn't the crippled boy's hour: he had already come earlier with stale bread and a jug of water. Sandor jumped on his feet and leaned against the bars of his cell; at first, he only saw a tall figure half-lit by a torch, standing straight in the corridor leading to the dungeon. _Him? Why would he come here?_ The stately demeanor and the slow footsteps confirmed his visitor was the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. He stopped in front of the steel bars, holding his torch so that he could look at Sandor, and for a heartbeat, there was a half-smile on his noble face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading and giving kudos! It's always encouraging.


	4. The Ogress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He threw himself on the cook, convinced she would step aside and let him go. To his great surprise, she put up resistance and clung on to him, preventing him from leaving the larder. Using all her weight, she stood in his way and crushed Sandor to her big breasts; soon he couldn't kick her and when she tightened her grip on him, he couldn't move anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my wonderful beta reader, Underthenorthernlights. Thank you for your patience and your support!  
> And thank you all for reading...

For a few heartbeats, Tywin Lannister remained silent and Sandor stared at the burning torch, holding his breath and slowly walking backwards in his cell. The Lord of Casterly Rock noticed his unease, for he looked at the torch, then put it in the metallic support on the wall behind him.

"My Lord," Sandor finally said, eyes downcast. "I disturbed your work, I beg forgiveness."

Tywin gestured as if to prevent him from saying anything else.

"But you don't apologize for beating those squires, do you?" he asked Sandor.

The boy didn't know the correct answer, so he shrugged.

"Your black eye disappeared," Tywin commented, folding his arms. "Good. Cleganes have the merit of healing quickly. Do you know why I'm here?"

Sandor shook his head and watched his overlord as he grabbed a discarded stool the crippled servant kept in a corner and sat on it. Sandor's stomach gurgled noisily and he wondered if Tywin would get mad at him for disturbing the silence of the dungeon.

"It's been a while since I last sent someone here," Tywin went on, lost in his thoughts. His eyes lingered on the walls carved out of the rock, then to the ceiling. "I usually don't need to. People find it easier to obey."

_He's pissed off_ , Sandor mused. _That's unfair, I only defended myself._

"Don't scowl at me," Tywin suddenly commanded. "I didn't send you here to punish you. Remember what I told you the other night: I know you didn't attack them."

_Why then?_ He stared at his liege lord while the latter shifted on the stool and crossed his long legs.

"You're an interesting person, Clegane. If this half-witted boy from House Banefort didn't already serve me, I would have chosen you as a squire. Maybe next year, once Banefort is knighted... Kevan wouldn't mind if I steal his own squire, he dislikes you."

Puzzled, Sandor didn't move. The harder he reflected on Tywin's words, the less he understood.

"Do you know why I sent you in the dungeon?" Tywin asked, leaning forward.

"You sent me in the dungeon because you were angry, my lord." In his eyes, it was the only sensible answer, but the man shook his head.

"No, not at all, boy. I sent you to this cell because I'm happy with you."

_It doesn't make any sense._ Sandor wondered if it was a trick.

"And I let my brother whip the squires because I couldn't care less. Tell me, boy, what will happen to these boys within five or ten years?"

Sandor shook his head again.

"Of course, you don't know," Tywin muttered. "Well, they are both their father's youngest son, which means they'll never inherit their family's lands and titles. They'll do their best to become knights and they'll probably succeed, they'll go from tourney to tourney and dream of being declared champion. A few days ago, I didn't care about them and didn't even think of their future. Thanks to you, I learned what kind of boys they are. In peace time, young arrogant knights like Peckledon and Serrett will be soon take part in tourneys and die because even if they're good at jousting, there's always someone more gifted than them. In war time, they die because they're not as strong as their opponents. And because they make terrible decisions, like assaulting you in the middle of the night."

He paused and observed Sandor's confused expression.

"I don't know if you're good or bad at jousting, boy. I'd wager you don't care about tourneys, because tourneys are not for real. To be completely honest with you, jousting and mêlée bore me. You're different from Serrett and Peckledon. You take it seriously when you fight and I respect that. That's why you're here: you didn't come to Casterly Rock to be coddled. Your late father would laugh at me if I overprotected you. You're here because I can give you bed and board as long as you fight for me."

"I'll fight for you, my lord," Sandor said, eyes pleading, but standing very straight.

His high-pitched voice brought a half-smile on Tywin's lips.

"How is it possible that a tall and broad-shouldered lad has such a girlish voice?" he exclaimed. "It doesn't matter. You need to train daily to improve your skills. You need to harden yourself. There will be battles soon."

"Is it why you were working so late?" Sandor asked, growing more confident.

Tywin nodded.

"Lords of the Vale, the North and the Stormlands rebelled against King Aerys. Sooner or later, I'll have to engage my host in this war," he said thoughtfully.

"I want to fight with you, my lord, when you rescue the king."

Coming to Aerys' help and taking part in a real war sounded more exciting than anything else; Sandor stepped forward, leaned against the bars of his cell and locked eyes with his visitor.

"Did I say I will fight for the king?" Tywin asked, his green gaze shining. "I didn't make a decision yet. As my ward, you'll fight for the side I choose."

"Of course, my lord."

Tywin arose and planted himself in front of the door, his long fingers brushing the lock. Immediately, Sandor ran to the corner where he had left his boots and tried to tidy his cell. When he was done, he got back to Tywin and waited for him to open the door. Brow furrowed, the Lord of Casterly Rock gazed at him.

"I came to talk to you, not to suspend your punishment," Tywin steadily explained. "I said five days. You have two more days to spend in here."

He ignored Sandor's begging eyes and calmly walked out of the dungeon.

* * *

 

Under Kevan Lannister's watchful gaze, the crippled servant turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door of his cell. _Free, at last._ After five days spent in the dark, living on bread and water, Sandor was so weak he didn't know if it was day or night; he only remembered he was asleep when they came. The lame boy who brought food everyday gave him a curious look and he felt like a wild animal out of his cage.

Kevan's frowned and commanded Sandor to follow him; they left the dungeon located in the depths of the castle and began to climb one of the never-ending spiral staircases of Casterly Rock. Sluggishly, they made progress in the chilly and unlit flights of stairs; Sandor was so unsteady on his feet the climb itself looked like an adventure, like exiting the Seven Hells and getting back to the world of the living. Finally, Kevan led him to a corridor poorly lit by candles; outside, a waning crescent moon cast a blueish light. It was later than he thought.

"What time is it, Ser?" Sandor asked.

"The hour of the wolf. The same hour I locked you in the dungeon when you fought with the squires. Five days are five days."

_Did Tywin command him to free me exactly five days after I stepped in the dungeon?_ He didn't dare to ask, but Kevan seemed furious, as if he had been disturbed in his sleep. They walked through the corridors, climbed more stairways and arrived in front of the room he shared with Tybolt. Without ever looking back, Kevan left him and headed to his apartments.

When he entered his room and sat on the pallet, Tybolt snored, head backwards and mouth agape. _In the dungeon, at least, everything was quiet._ Lying curled up in a ball, he felt tired but couldn't get to sleep. He was ravenous and knew he couldn't get some rest before eating. It was not gluttony: he _needed_ some food. Silently, he left his pallet and opened the door: the corridor seemed empty. He walked on tiptoe on the wooden floor, reached the staircase and made his way to the kitchens.

During the five days he spent in the dungeon, Sandor had become obsessed with the larder: he dreamed of ham and sausages, let his mind wander around the shelves full of bacon, pâtés and legs of lamb. The kitchens were perfectly silent and by chance, no kitchen maid slept there. Thanks to the meager light provided by the fire, he found the larder's door and slowly opened it. The smell was so rich, with fragrances of salt and smoked meat tickling his nostrils, he nearly fainted and had to lean back on the door. _Careful now: nobody needs to know I was here. If I got locked in the dungeon five days for defending myself, I'll spend the next moons in a cell for stealing food._

All of a sudden, before he could decide what he would pick, a muffled noise startled him and he hid himself in the darkest corner of the tiny room, hitting a large ham hanging from the ceiling. The intruder, whoever it was, headed directly to the larder: underneath the door, he could see the light of a lantern dancing on the red tiles and coming closer. He swallowed hard, ruing his decision of sneaking in the kitchens and thinking of the black bread he would eat for days in the dungeon, when the door creaked open.

Fat Jeyne's pot-bellied figure appeared, holding a candle lantern; in her nightgown and woolen shawl, she seemed heavier than the last time they met.

"Seven save us, what are you doing here?" she hissed, her chest heaving, and she put the lantern on the nearest shelf.

Sandor thought of running away, but standing on the threshold, she blocked his path; he nevertheless decided to force his way out, guessing he would leave her behind easily. He threw himself on the cook, convinced she would step aside and let him go. To his great surprise, she put up resistance and clung on to him, preventing him from leaving the larder. Using all her weight, she stood in his way and crushed Sandor to her big breasts; soon he couldn't kick her and when she tightened her grip on him, he couldn't move anymore.

After a few heartbeats, he stopped struggling with her and stood up straight as soon as she released her hold on him. She wasn't so impressive this way; he was taller than Fat Jeyne and her face seemed tired.

"There," she cawed. "You little monster. Thought you could sneak in the larder and eat whatever you want? Say you're sorry."

Looking down and observing his bare feet black with filth, he complied.

"Are you going to tell Ser Kevan I stole food?" he added, anxious.

"No, 'cause you didn't. You only awoke me and tried to escape. And kicked my old legs."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing at her.

Hands on her hips, she gave him a long disapproving look.

"What am I going to do with you, Sandor?"

_She remembers my name._ Nobody called him 'Sandor' in Casterly Rock. He knew he should have been moved, however, her familiarity disturbed him and he felt the urge to run away, like some young wild animal.

"I'd better go to bed," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"Where have you been? I didn't see you in days."

Someone wondering where he was and caring for him seemed completely unnatural. He shifted from foot to foot.

"I... was in the dungeon. I hit squires. But they hit me first," he explained, ashamed.

"The dungeon, huh? I'd wager they barely gave you something to eat. Is it why-"

She gestured at the shelves heavy with smoked sausages and hams and he nodded in acquiescence. Her lips twisted in a motherly smile.

"Well, since we're both awake..." she sighed, extending her pudgy hand to reach a plate of smoked bacon. "Go sit down, boy."

Sandor watched her as she prepared eggs with bacon. For fear he was starving, she added some gruel and put the food in front of him, with a gap-toothed smile. _She looks like an ogress, an ogress who remembers my name._

"Can I have some wine?" he asked, knowing gruel would make him thirsty.

"Only watered wine for you, boy!" she exclaimed, ruffling his hair.

She stood up behind him while he ate, keeping an eye on Sandor. With every gulp of food, he felt better but began to wonder what she had in mind and why she was good to him. _Is it because my burns move her to pity or does she want something in exchange for her help, like Tywin?_ Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to Fat Jeyne.

"I once had a son," she muttered, as if answering to his silent question. "Big eater, he was. Like you. He died, years ago. A fever."

Sandor wanted to say something, but words were stuck in his throat.

"But you don't care, do you?" Fat Jeyne added, taking hastily the empty bowl of gruel. "I'm pretty sure you're a decent lad, Sandor. There will always be something for you in the kitchens as long as you promise not to steal food. Just ask Fat Jeyne."

She sighed heavily and he saw unshed tears in her small eyes.

"Go to bed, now. When this codger who calls himself a master-at-arms is done with you, come here and I'll give you some more gruel. With jam, if you're a good boy."

  
  



	5. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a few heartbeats the room remained silent, only filled with the growing tension between the two siblings.  
> "I just asked Lord Tywin if you could come back to Clegane's Keep," Gregor finally said.  
> No. Please don't. I didn't do what I did to be sent away like this.

Ignoring the curious eyes of the kitchen maids, Sandor came in and rued the bright sun that made the kitchens so dark in comparison; after a few heartbeats, his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he found the place where the wood was stored, on the left of the big hearth, and put the heavy logs on the ground. The girls were whispering when he turned around to seek Fat Jeyne's eyes. None of them could carry as many logs as him and the two boys working in the kitchens boasted themselves but couldn't either. It didn't prevent the boys from blowing their own trumpet in front of the maids, but Sandor shrugged at that thought. He didn't care for girls: he only wanted to help Fat Jeyne.

_Not to help her, not exactly; do her a favor because she gave me some food. And there will be more favors because she intends to feed me for a while._ Being beholden to someone, even to Fat Jeyne, made him sick. _I'll fight for Tywin Lannister because he welcomed me in his castle. And I'll carry those damn logs because Fat Jeyne didn't let me starve when I left the dungeon._

"What can I do, now?" he asked Fat Jeyne who considered the pile of logs with a smug smile.

She hesitated, visibly surprised he didn't walked out already, and turned her round greasy face to him.

"Well, the young lady asked for green peas and she likes green peas with onions and carrots so you can lend us a hand. Have a seat."

He sat on the bench across the whispering maids, who elbowed each other while podding peas. Fat Jeyne put a dozen carrots and a blunted knife in front of him then grinned.

"Cut them to pieces, Sandor. Here's your sword," she mocked.

Sandor had thought of some task requiring strength rather than meticulousness, something more masculine; he nevertheless complied. He didn't like the whispering girls, nor the mix of dirt and juice sticking to his palms once he had peeled the carrots, but there was something soothing in the atmosphere of the kitchens; while he usually felt like he didn't belong to Casterly Rock, this sensation disappeared in a few seconds when he passed the threshold. _Just like the impression of being blinded when I come in: I step in, my eyes get used to the half-light and suddenly I can see every greasy stain of the kitchens._ The smell of hot bread elicited a smile at the corners of his lips.

Skirts rustling on the tiles of the corridor made the kitchen maids stiffen suddenly and Sandor's gaze settled on the door frame as Fat Jeyne gave out a heavy sigh. A tall and slim blond girl stepped in and he knew instantly who she was. _Cersei Lannister. Tywin's daughter. The one King Aerys rejected for his son. The girl for whom I'm peeling carrots_. Sandor didn't know anything about women's attire and would have been unable to describe how she was dressed or how her golden hair was done, but she did look beautiful and elegant. _The most beautiful girl in the Westerlands, mayhap in the realm, they say. Well, it's true. But nobody told me she looked so fierce._

Cersei Lannister stepped forward, her haughty gaze flying from the trembling maids to the long wooden table covered with vegetables, jugs and dishes, then to Fat Jeyne and himself. They all stood up very straight, waiting for an invitation to sit down again that would never came. She let her green eyes linger on them for a few heartbeats, taking perverse pleasure in the girls submissive look.

"I will have cabbages for my supper. Boiled," she said, without greeting them first.

"The girls just picked the green peas in your lord father's garden, my lady. They're as fresh as can be. I thought green peas were your favorite-"

"You thought? You don't work in the kitchens to think or to plan anything, old woman. I'll have cabbages because it's good for my skin. And oysters, for the taste."

"Summer is not a good season for oysters," Fat Jeyne replied.

"Surprise me, then," she answered coldly.

They all thought Cersei was about to walk away and the kitchen maids were almost sighing with relief, when Tywin's daughter pointed at him.

"You. I saw you in the yard, fighting with Serret and Peckledon. Defeating them."

Her remark made Sandor feeling ridiculously proud, not because the compliment came from a beautiful girl – he was too low-born for her and she was old, really old, probably seven-and-ten – but because she was his liege lord's daughter. _She can talk to her father about me. And if a girl who only cares for her skin or for her power over kitchen maids acknowledges my skills, I'm better than I thought._ He looked at her straight in the eyes and nodded curtly.

"My lady."

She smirked and, in her handsome face, there was suddenly something devilish.

"What an ugly face! Sheltering crippled boys doesn't look like my father. Is this the way you won over the squires, showing them your dreadful face?"

He was shaking with rage but held on the edge of the table, while the youngest of the kitchen maids, a girl of ten, frantically shook her head as if she was telling him not to react to Cersei's provocation.

"Still making fun of everyone," Fat Jeyne growled. "Was your day that bad, my lady?"

Cersei's green eyes opened wide; she didn't find anything to reply and frustration made her chest raise slowly up and down, just like she lacked air. Spinning on her heels, Tywin's daughter finally walked away. As soon as the sound of her offended footsteps faded outside, the youngest kitchen maid leaned over the table to talk to him, not understanding he only wanted to be left alone.

"Lady Cersei is always like this," she explained, shaking her long and thin black braid. "Today, it was just your turn. She uses to call me 'Rat tail'. Because of my braid."

He didn't give a damn about how Cersei nicknamed her and looked back at the little girl angrily.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

"Willa, from Pansy Mill."

"Get back to your peas, Willa from Pansy Mill," he told her in a threatening voice, making her and her companions shudder. "Unless you want me to crush your face like I did with Peckledon."

"Come here, Sandor," Fat Jeyne grunted.

Once Cersei was gone, she had waddled to the larder in order to pick what kind of meat the Lannister family would eat for supper; something in her tone suggested she had heard his answer to Willa. He pushed himself from the bench and walked to the larder.

"Don't ever talk to my girls like you just did," Fat Jeyne whispered, pointing a pudgy finger at him. "Willa was just trying to help. Now go tell her you're sorry."

Sandor didn't understand how she did it, but the old cook always managed to make him do what she wanted even if he disagreed: he dragged his feet to the long table, looked at the girls who were as scared of him as they feared Cersei's wrath and planted himself in front of Willa's tiny figure.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly.

_I don't really mean it_ , he mused. Behind him, in the larder, Fat Jeyne cleared her throat noisily.

"Won't talk to you like that again. Don't push me, though," he added.

He sat down, grabbed his knife and lowered his gaze on the carrots, determined to avoid the kitchen maid's eyes. When he was almost done and when his blood stopped running wildly in his veins, the smell of hot bread tickled his nostrils again; his reward would come soon. _Unless Fat Jeyne didn't like my apologies, but I would already know_. Someone suddenly slammed the door open, startling the poor girls again, and Kevan Lannister appeared on the threshold. Instead of the boiled leather he usually wore during the afternoon, when he attended the squires training, he had done a fresh doublet.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing in the kitchens?" he barked at Sandor.

"He's skilled with a blade, Ser," Fat Jeyne retorted in a playful tone. "Besides, I heard Lord Tywin wants him to become a hefty young warrior. I would have given him something nourishing for the care given."

Kevan glared at her and motioned him to the door.

"Quick, boy. A squire's place is not in the kitchens, with women," Kevan hissed.

"I'll save some bread for you, Sandor," Fat Jeyne promised, and it sounded like a provocation to her lord's brother.

Kevan silently hurried himself to the part of the keep where they lived, taking two steps at a time and striding along the corridors, but never looking at his squire.

"Dress properly," he commanded Sandor when they reached the room he shared with Tybolt. "Your brother pays us a visit."

* * *

 

_You can do this. You defeated two older squires, and one of them was almost a knight. You beat them when they attacked you at night. You spent five days in the dungeon for nothing and you didn't complain. You lived for a week in the woods, on the run, starving, still you managed to climb and reach the gates of Casterly Rock. You escaped him. You survived. You survived them all._

He should have been proud and invigorated when thinking of the last weeks, so why did he feel so weak and frightened? _Terrified, rather. I'm no craven, but I'm terrified._ The prospect of meeting Gregor again, here, in the Golden Gallery of Casterly Rock, sent shivers down his spine and sickened him. When he thought of his older brother, he saw blood puddles on the dirt and on the reddish tiles, recalled the stench – a mix of sweat, mud, blood and gods-know-what. He couldn't remember the screaming, though, neither his father's nor the young servant's a few months before. _How long did she stay with us? Three, maybe four months. Her name was Ivy and she laughed at me, calling me her savior. I tried to protect her, I swear, but I couldn't do anything the day he came for her._

As he tried to wipe away the servant's face lingering in his memory, anxiety took hold of him at the thought of what Gregor could do to the keep's inhabitants. He suddenly felt more scared for the stupid girls who worked in the kitchens than for himself. _I should have warned them. Warned Fat Jeyne to be careful._ He even felt worried about the nosy little girl who had tried to comfort him. The only women for whom he wasn't anxious were Cersei and the stupid woman Kevan Lannister called his wife; Gregor was not clever, but he was smart enough to choose his preys.

Kevan looked back at him and frowned, not understanding why Sandor hesitated before crossing the threshold of the Golden Gallery, so he came in on quavering legs. Tywin was already there, casually sat on a cross-framed folding seat whose back and armrests were of gilded leather, his brother Gerion by his side, facing their guest's massive figure. The Golden Gallery took copper tones in the afternoon; large windows provided a generous light sent back by the brocade curtains, the polished wooden floor and the gilded furniture displayed in the room. Everything was golden inside, except the red sigil of House Lannister visible on a huge banner at the end of the gallery. It boasted several golden candelabras, so uncommonly large and wide they were taller than the servants who saw to furbish them, but that day the candelabras seemed small and frail, compared to the man planted in front of Tywin; Tywin Lannister himself looked stunted on his armchair.

As he walked in and left behind him the heavy doors adorned with bronze and copper, Gregor had his back to him and wasn't aware of his presence; Sandor noticed the hulking form, his legs like columns, his arms strong enough to crush anyone. His brother looked gawky in the fresh clothes he had done to meet his overlord, yet determined; he stared Tywin down, without understanding it was a mistake. For a while, this realization distracted him from his queasiness, until Gregor turned to him. Sandor's heart skipped a beat and Gerion must have sensed his uneasiness, for he left his brother's side to stand beside the boy.

"Brother," Gregor flatly said, narrowing his eyes, "you look in good shape."

His honeyed words didn't hide his devious smile, though, and he made few efforts to conceal his true feelings; dissimulation was never familiar to him. In the meanwhile, images churned around in Sandor's head: the woods, his father's last hunt, the servant. _Her name was Ivy, she was my friend and you destroyed her. When you were done with her, I knew we couldn't give her back to her family, not like this, so I asked one of the peasants to help me bury her. Hiring her was a mistake, Father should have known, but it doesn't change anything. She was good to me and you slaughtered her. You made me clean your mess._

"Seven Hells, boy! Say something to your brother," Kevan commanded him, exasperated by his silence.

Sandor looked back at the new owner of Clegane's Keep and mumbled something inaudible. For a few heartbeats the room remained silent, only filled with the growing tension between the two siblings.

"I just asked Lord Tywin if you could come back to Clegane's Keep," Gregor finally said.

_No. Please don't. I didn't do what I did to be sent away like this._ He swallowed hard and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, soon slipping down his temples. Though he kept staring at his brother, he saw Gerion leaning toward him in his peripheral vision.

"Don't worry," he whispered to Sandor, but what followed was directed at Gregor. "Do you think we can't take care of young people like him? We've got plenty of pages and squires here!" 

Gregor tried to apologize and began to justify himself. He never meant this, never ever thought something like this; his confused explanations elicited a half smile on Tywin's lips. The lord of Casterly Rock didn't utter a single word since Sandor's arrival, observing everyone, especially the Clegane brothers, as if this meeting was a game with sophisticated rules he was the only one to know and the people in front of him pawns he could play with. He slowly shifted on his seat, elbows rooted to the arm rests and looked at them over steepled fingers.

"Why not discuss these matters during a game hunting?" he suggested. "Tomorrow morning. The five of us."

"I love hunting," Gregor replied, and he turned slightly to his brother.

A seething rage took hold of Sandor, but before he could do anything stupid, Gerion placed a heavy hand on his right shoulder.

"Don't."

Sandor only thought about throwing himself on his brother, though he knew he wouldn't have the upper hand, when Tywin sent away everyone. His anger focused on his liege lord, who knew what had happened to his father the last time he led his hounds in the woods surrounding Clegane's Keep. Tywin didn't know what kind of game Gregor intended to play with his brother after he ran away from home and hid in the forest, but that, the death of his father, he couldn't ignore it. Sandor could only read this game hunting as a provocation directed at him and felt betrayed.

As they all retreated from the gallery, he was more bitter than ever, following obediently Kevan who courteously talked to Gregor.

"Stay here, boy," Tywin called.

As far as he knew, he was the only boy exiting the gallery, so he stopped and spun on his heels.

"Shall I close the door?" he asked coldly to the man still sat on his leather gilded armchair.

Tywin didn't reply instantly, waiting for his brothers and Gregor to walk away.

"Don't ever look at me like you did, boy. I know what I'm doing."

His tone was curt and peremptory; Sandor nonetheless granted him with a dark stare.

_No, you don't know anything._

* * *

 

His father always told him hunting games in Casterly Rock looked like expeditions, with dozens of dogs and an army of men driving deers and boars towards Tywin Lannister and his guests. _Father would have been disappointed._ They were only ten: the Lannister siblings, Gregor, himself and five beaters, wandering in the woods. The area located on the east of Casterly Rock abounded in stags, deers and hares, Kevan had said, as if four-legged game still captivated Gregor.

Sandor had barely slept the night before; when Kevan had dismissed him, he had visited Fat Jeyne – to warn her, but she already seemed to know and she had tried in vain to make him talk to her – then he had shut himself in his room refusing to come down for supper. He had to think about what he would do, that night and the day after. When he understood he wouldn't sleep, at least not in this room where Gregor could easily find him and finish what he had begun, he sneaked out, stole a sword in the armory and finally took refuge in the stables. Gregor wouldn't look for him there and the presence of so many horses – stallions, mares and draft horses – was comforting enough; short after the middle of the night, he fell asleep and only woke up when an astonished stable boy found him lying on the straw.

Kevan had spent his entire morning chiding him – because he was late, because he smelt of the stables, because the hares had deserted this part of the woods. At noon, Tywin decided they should part; Kevan and Gregor, who were talented hunters, would go with the three more seasoned beaters while himself would stay with Gerion and Sandor.

"We'll talk about your brother later," he told Gregor, "on our way back to the castle."

Tywin was already getting tired of the hunt, Sandor noticed. _Because it's not for real. War is the only thing he really cares for. War and ruling the Westerlands_. As soon as Gregor and Kevan began to canter through the woods, their beaters running desperately to follow them, Tywin contemplated the slender tree trunks, the changing green of the leaves when rays of light played through the foliage.

"Joanna loved this season," Gerion observed, guessing what was in his brother's mind.

Tywin nodded, his gloved hands pulling the reins. Progressing slowly, they started to talk about Lady Joanna, to recall ancient memories, half forgetting about the squire they had taken with them; the remaining beaters themselves seemed lost in the thick woods. Sandor realized it was his only chance and put some distance between him and the Lannister brothers first; then, when he was sure they didn't even remember his presence, he spurred on his horse and hurried himself to the pond where Kevan had said he wanted to go.

The woods were silent around the marshy area of the pond; no trees had taken root in the damp soil, so that he could clearly look around and his brother wasn't there. He had not really decided what he would do; it was more an impulse than a conscious resolution. He couldn't put up with the idea of letting Gregor breathe and walk freely after what he had done. _And since Tywin doesn't give a damn... he probably wants to get rid of me, too, or else he would have told Gregor to fuck off._ If he was ever alone with him, Gregor wouldn't let him escape like he had done in Clegane's Keep. _He won't make the same mistake and think I'm too sad or too weak to run away. And I'm the last one, the only one able to resist him, so he'll take his time with me._

He was riding around the pond when he spotted Gregor, a hundred yards away, shouting at a beater; he let his horse feel his spurs, once again, and grabbed the handle of the dagger the master-at-arms allowed him to take for the hunt. As the distance narrowed between Gregor and him, different images churned in his head – Ivy's grave, in the orchard, under the apple tree; his father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his own horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. He was only thirty feet away from his brother when Gregor turned to him, saw him alone and immediately understood what he planned to do, if the perverse smile distorting his lips was any indication.

Someone was galloping behind him though, someone who had escaped the half light of the woods only to dive on him; Sandor was aware of his presence, yet didn't stop, hoping the intruder would arrive too late. He was wrong.

His horse reared up when Gerion appeared on his left and made him stop suddenly.

"What did you had in mind?" a breathless Gerion bellowed, seizing the reins of Sandor's mount.

He didn't answer but stared at his brother, then glanced from time to time at his massive figure once Gerion forced him to turn around and go back to the woods. When he finally stopped looking at Gregor, he heard a disturbing laughter behind him.

* * *

 The stag was a beautiful beast; Tywin nonetheless found it was too young to die and Gregor mumbled something about a biggest animal the beaters had let escape. They were drinking out of their wine skins, around the dead stag, ready to go back to the castle.

"I'd like to take the antlers as a present for my wife," Kevan said thoughtfully.

"A present for your wife?" Tywin exclaimed. "The laws of hospitality tell us to let our guest decide about that. What do you think, Ser Gregor?"

"I would say Ser Kevan can take the antlers and the rest if I can have my brother back," Gregor replied with a fake playfulness.

"What a strange bargain!" Tywin put away his wineskin and Sandor read it as the beginning of the more serious discussion.

_Please, tell him to fuck off._

"Well, it seems to me that a young knight now in charge of a keep and good lands such as yours is quite busy. How will you find the time to take care of this... rather unruly boy?"

"That's what I thought," Gregor sighed, shaking his head. "Always getting in trouble. I hope you chastised him well enough, my lord."

"We saw to it."

"Let me take him back to Clegane's keep, my lord, and he won't bother you again. My little brother can be such a nuisance sometimes."

"Am I already drunk," Gerion jested, "or did you forget to answer my brother's question? I don't understand how you will take care of this boy with all your... activities."

Gregor took a gulp of wine, pondering his answer.

"He belongs to Clegane's Keep," he finally said. "Besides, what will you do with him? Look at him, his voice didn't even break!"

_Tell him to fuck off. Please don't send me away._ Tywin tilted his head.

"As a matter of fact, he can be useful. He already proved his skills, with a sword and wooden shield. It would have been perfect if he had not ruined this squire's face, but... your brother is gifted."

"Do you know what our father Tytos would have said?" Gerion added. "Never underestimate a Clegane. I'm sure you agree with that."

Gregor couldn't do anything, except showing his acquiescence and gratefulness.

"So we agree on this; your brother will stay here with us so that you have plenty of time to take care of the lands my father gave to your family. Oh, and you can have the antlers, by the way."

Tywin walked away and one of the beaters instantly brought him his horse, as Gregor, white with rage, stared at the antlers. _Tywin's way to tell him 'Fuck off'_ , Sandor mused.


	6. The Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why did you throw yourself on someone older?" Gerion asked.  
> "Because he took the nest."  
> "That would be the most ridiculous reason I ever heard to split open someone's lip."  
> Sandor shrugged again; even if Gerion was not Kevan who had a stiff expression whenever he looked at him, even if he seemed to take Sandor's side, most of the time, he couldn't tell him why he had beaten Banefort. Sandor couldn't even understand his own reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights! Your help and your support are priceless... And thank you all for reading!

He was breathless, shaking, and his knuckles ached when Gerion Lannister pulled him away from Willem Banefort, one of the oldest squires in Casterly Rock, almost a knight. _Tywin's squire._ Still panting, he gave a look at his opponent lying on the grass; he should have known it was a mistake to throw himself on Banefort who was all muscle and whose family was powerful while he was nothing.

_But he challenged me, he provoked me. And I had the upper hand on him._ He decided to ignore the fact that he had made another enemy in a castle where he had so few friends, dusted his jerkin and met Gerion's eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Gerion shouted, clearly disappointed by his behavior.

Tywin's youngest brother had found Sandor giving Banefort a beating in the orchard, at the foot of a pear tree, surrounded by other squires and pages excited by the fight. The boys bellowed and yelped with every blow but none encouraged Sandor; they were just thrilled by his violence and perhaps glad to see someone hitting Banefort. Banefort was said untouchable, because he was Tywin's squire and because he used to terrify the youngest boys; the pages and squires loved the sight of Banefort beaten by someone else but a fight like this one wouldn't make Sandor one of them.

He glanced at the fallen nest, lying on the grass; from where he was standing, it looked like a dark sphere made of twigs and moss. He didn't answer Gerion's question. Banefort pushed himself from the ground, wincing because of his split lip and carefully feeling the lower part of his face as if he was afraid to lose his jaw, while the other boys stepped back for fear of his reaction. He pointed at Sandor.

"He's mad, Ser. A mad dog, that's what he is! He threw himself on me, like a damn beast, when I was climbing the pear tree-"

"What were you doing in the pear tree? Stealing green pears?"

Behind them, a boy laughed and Banefort went silent. The shame he read on the squire's face made Gerion think Banefort climbed the tree for a reason he didn't want to explain.

"Tybolt, come here," Gerion ordered.

_No, not Tybolt! He never knows anything, nor sees anything. Tybolt won't say the truth._ Kevan's page was looking at his feet and bit his lower lip like a little girl.

"I didn't see anything, Ser. I arrived when they were already fighting," Tybolt explained, after glancing at Banefort.

"Serrett!" Gerion called. "What happened?"

Serrett seemed as sheepish as Banefort and Gerion immediately noticed his crimson cheeks, if his way of stroking his blond beard was any indication.

"Speak, boy. What was your friend Banefort doing in the pear tree? Speak or I'll send you to the dungeon. Clegane already spent a few days in the dungeon, he can tell you how comfortable it is. Right, Clegane?"

Serrett shifted from foot to foot, ill-at-ease.

"There was a nest in the pear tree, on the highest branch," he finally replied. "Banefort wanted to take the nest, and I said he couldn't because it was too high. He climbed the tree... and that's when Clegane showed up and yelled and climbed the tree as well. He threw himself on him, he made Banefort fall."

"Are you hurt, Banefort? Any broken leg? No, or else you wouldn't stand up," Gerion mocked.

"He threw himself on me," Banefort repeated. "I don't even know why!"

"How old are you, Banefort? When do you expect to become a knight?" "Seven-and-ten, Ser. I hope I'll be dubbed soon, maybe next year."

"Was it some kind of quest, boy? Climbing the tree and seizing the nest, like a trophy, to give it to your lady? Seven Hells, you need to grow up! Now, go away: I could punish you for the nest, but everyone in this castle will soon know you've been beaten by Clegane and that's enough."

He turned to Sandor after sending away everyone, and sighed heavily.

"What am I going to do, with you?"

Sandor shrugged, while Gerion folded his arms in the now silent orchard. A jay chirped in the nearest hazel tree and he suddenly remembered the white speckled eggs once resting in the nest; he didn't need to look to be sure they had crashed on the ground.

"Why did you throw yourself on someone older?"

"Because he took the nest."

"That would be the most ridiculous reason I ever heard to split open someone's lip."

Sandor shrugged again; even if Gerion was not Kevan who had a stiff expression whenever he looked at him, even if he seemed to take Sandor's side, most of the time, he couldn't tell him why he had beaten Banefort. Sandor couldn't even understand his own reaction.

It all began the day Tywin organized a game hunting for Gregor; Banefort, as Tywin's squire, was sure he would come with them. He thought it was his right and Sandor admitted his point of view so far. The night before, as Tybolt later told Sandor, Banefort boasted himself and told everyone he would hunt in the woods near Casterly Rock and find a way to talk with Gregor – Gregor's dubbing by Prince Rhaegar had done a lot for his reputation. However, Tywin's decision of not taking Banefort with him and, above all, the fact that Sandor took part in the hunt, staying with Tywin, provoked the squire's jealousy and since that day, he considered Sandor like an intruder.

At first, Banefort's japes about Sandor's high-pitched voice were not different from the usual scoffing he heard. Then, insults replaced the daily jokes and it became more personal. Banefort repeated _'You don't belong here'_ every time he met Sandor. The boy clenched his jaw, knowing it was dangerous to take on someone who was more than his match. He knew he didn't really belong to the small world of squires; he talked more to the silly girls working in the kitchens than to his companions. The stupid bet Banefort and Serrett did about the nest infuriated Sandor; he couldn't tell Gerion why without revealing parts of his childhood he tried to forget.

Gregor climbing trees was one of Sandor's first memories about his brother's ill-deeds, probably because when he was a boy of five, watching Gregor playing in the biggest oak near the keep was simply marvelous. He recalled his own smile, his pride, when Gregor had reached the top of the tree then had looked triumphantly at him. Right after that, Gregor began his descent and took the nest snugly set between the trunk and a branch; he carefully held the nest – a round nest made off dark twigs, very similar to the one Banefort coveted – in his hands when he came back to Sandor to show him what he had found, and to the little boy's surprise, the mass of twigs sang. Four little birds, with their greyish feathers still wet and wings so small they seemed useless, chirped together.

Sandor was fascinated; he asked if he could keep the nestlings and feed them or if they should put the nest where Gregor had found it. His brother shook his head and smiled, then grabbed one of the birds – a tiny greyish bird chirping louder in his hand – and he threw it on the grass. Sandor gasped at the sight of the harmless little bird lying there, sensing Gregor was about to do something wrong and screamed when his brother's heel crushed the bird and put an end to the chirping.

As far as he knew, the birds had been the first living beings his brother had killed, and until that day, he couldn't stand to see boys destroying nests to have fun. Gregor's recent visit and Banefort's scoffing had done the rest. As he couldn't confide in Gerion, he stared at the ground and shrugged again, wondering how many days he would spend in the dungeon this time. If things went on like this, people would probably name the dungeon after him, for the weeks he spent behind the bars.

"Come with me," Gerion ordered, frowning.

Eyes downcast, he followed Gerion out of the orchard; they reached the postern, crossed the yard where some squires stared at them, entered the keep and took the spiral staircase leading to the solar. _He's going to tell Tywin what I did. Tywin decided to foster me three days ago and I spoiled everything._ Gerion didn't utter a word, keeping an impenetrable look until he knocked at the solar's door.

He came in, Sandor on his heels, and cleared his throat. Tywin was sat behind a long table, reading a scroll with a seal almost as big as the message; Kevan watched his elder brother, arms folded, an bored expression on his face.

"What?" Tywin said in his soft, yet impatient tone.

"I found Clegane fighting with another squire," Gerion explained, hardly concealing his anger. "He won't tell me why."

Tywin put away the scroll and observed him while Kevan rolled his eyes.

"I already told you, brother," Kevan sighed. "Too many squires-"

"Shut up: the squires will be useful soon." Then he turned to Gerion. "You said the boy didn't want to tell you why he attacked a squire? Look at me, Clegane, and tell me why you beat him."

Sandor remembered the nest, the little birds killed by his brother years ago and thought his explanations weren't worthy of his liege lord.

"I can't tell you, my lord," he answered sheepishly.

"See!" Kevan exclaimed. "Undisciplined, violent and always acting before thinking of the consequences. This boy is out of control! And you decided he would be my squire? Next time you want to make a squire of some boy, please forget about me!"

"If you don't want to take care of him, I'll do your job. Don't complain if the responsibilities I give you don't suit your talent, though."

Tywin's cutting remark irritated Kevan who left without a word. The lord of Casterly Rock sighed deeply, as if his brother was just another unruly child he fostered because he wanted to do a favor to his family.

"So, Gerion, what did you see? Who was this boy Clegane attacked and who was winning the fight when you intervened?"

"Your squire, Banefort. Clegane had already split his lower lip when I stop the fight."

"It seems this lad has a taste for beating older boys," Tywin commented. "You see, mayhap the motives are not that important. It's like this rebellion in the Stormlands; why did all this began? Because of a pretty girl disappearing in the North? I don't know if Lyanna Stark is the reason why half the realm fights against King Aerys and frankly, I don't care. Instead of trying to understand why something happen, we should always consider the facts. Who wins? Or the consequences. What will happen if the rebels are defeated? What if they overthrew the king?"

He pushed himself from his armchair and walked around the table to face them.

"Maybe the fact that Clegane attacked an older boy and had the upper hand on him tells us more about him than the reason why he threw himself on Banefort," he added. "Leave us, Gerion. I'll take care of him."

Gerion didn't react, at first, and slowly retreated from the solar, leaving them alone in the long room from where Tywin Lannister ruled the Westerlands. Sandor felt so ashamed he once more looked at his feet while Tywin walked back to his armchair and lowered his gaze on the mysterious scroll. He read it again, and Sandor wondered why a message so short – it was smaller than Tywin's hand – captivated his overlord. From time to time, he would put the scroll on the table and glanced through the mullion windows, but kept silent.

Sandor almost believed he had forgotten about him when Tywin set his green eyes on him.

"My brother Kevan is convinced you're stupid and useless. He says you always smell of onions and manure because you spend your time either in the kitchens or in the stables," he began. "I suppose his conversation with Ser Gregor the other day backs up his analysis. On the other hand, Gerion praises your skills. I wonder if you will be a good swordsman or if you are more than that. What would you say?"

His question took Sandor unawares and he felt an uncomfortable warmth on his cheeks.

"I don't know, my lord." "Do you know what the message I was reading is about? Of course, you don't, but let's play a game. I could send you immediately to the dungeon or tell Symon to flog you until you bleed. Or... I could let you go after lecturing you. It depends on the advice you'll give me. If your advice is good, it means you're able to understand and dungeon is probably not necessary."

Tywin brandished the scroll and the red ribbon hanging from the huge seal brushed his forearm.

"I won't tell you a secret because within a few hours everyone in this castle will know what this message is about; still, I do you a favor asking your opinion about it. It comes from King's Landing; King Aerys faces difficulties with the rebels fighting in the Stormlands and now in the Riverlands. He asks for my help. What should I do? Remember if your answer doesn't suit me, you'll sleep in the dungeon tonight."

Sandor swallowed hard and asked himself if Tywin's boredom was the reason why he needed to play such games.

"Well, my lord... You should probably do what's best for the realm. What's best for the Westerlands," he added, remembering Tywin only cared about the lands he ruled.

"What if the interest of the realm is different from the interest of the Westerlands?" Tywin retorted.

Sandor felt dizzy: the Seven Kingdoms, the Westerlands, the rebellion stirring the country... He remained silent for a while, hesitating until his eyes found the Lannister sigil adorned with a roaring lion, painted on a shield.

"I suppose... you should do what is best for House Lannister," he replied abruptly.

Tywin stared at him for a few heartbeats, then nodded. In his face few people were able to read, Sandor saw a hint of amusement but not a single trace of irony.

"This is wiser than what I expected from you, Clegane."

Though he seemed satisfied with this answer, he kept his promise and lectured Sandor about fits of anger, before letting him go.

"One last thing, boy. I'll speak to the master-at-arms; expect him to be uncompromising with you. We'll fight sooner or later and you'd better be ready."

_He'll help the king_ , Sandor mused. _He'll help Aerys and try to gain something worthy for House Lannister._ As he stopped on a balcony to give a look at the yard where squires were still training, he imagined himself rescuing the royal family. Later on, that same day, when someone told him Tywin had refused to help the crown defeat the rebels, he didn't understand. He recalled every detail of their conversation but couldn't give any sense to Tywin's decision; he nevertheless kept his thoughts for himself and decided to focus on what Tywin had said: training.


	7. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So you're leaving. Lord Tywin changed his mind overnight," she commented, a bit stiffly. "Didn't think it would be so soon. Are you happy to make war, boy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos I received lately and thank you all for reading!

The master-at-arms, unshaven, his paunch popping out of his breeches, looked at them solemnly and cleared his throat.

"This will be our last training day. We're going to King's Landing with all the Lannister Bannermen. At least some of you will come with us."

The news brought enthusiasm among the squires and pages gathered in the yard, under the morning sun. The oldest squires strutted around, sure they would be part of the host, confident in their skills and bravery. They all dreamed of feats of arms, of rewards, of people calling their names, of songs written about them. While they all gloated over the journey, Sandor didn't move and stayed perfectly silent. Fighting meant giving free rein to his violent urges while he tried to control them daily. He was good at only one thing, people usually forbid him to do it and suddenly, the ban had disappeared and he would be praised for beating and hurting his fellow men. It was so disturbing he felt dizzy and hardly avoided Serret who jumped and ran about in excitement.

"Pages are not coming," the master-at-arms announced, after shushing them.

A disappointed clamor spread in the yard.

"No! Master Symon!" a boy protested.

"I said...You'll stay with Ser Kevan. War is not for children."

_Ser Kevan stays here!_ Sandor kept himself from leaping like a mountain goat, then panicked: a squire belonged with his master. What if Tywin had decided that neither Kevan nor him would move from Casterly Rock? And suddenly, he felt like everybody attended a feast of which he was excluded.

"Clegane! Where are you?" the master-at-arms rasped. "Stop hiding yourself behind the pages, you pig-head, you're taller than anyone."

Some squires gave a raucous laughter; the pages were too frustrated by the idea of staying in the Westerlands to appreciate any joke, while everybody packed for the capital. Sandor dragged his feet obediently and positioned himself in front of the master-at-arms. Symon told the squires to take their shield and sword for the training and dismissed the pages.

"You'll train with me, today," he explained, sputtering on Sandor's good cheek. "Want to see how you improved on your sword fight."

It sounded more like an attempt to prevent a brawl, as the other squires kept on provoking Sandor and Sandor kept distrusting them.

"Am I going with you to King's Landing?" he asked, trying to conceal his nervousness.

As usual, his high-pitched voice betrayed him and the master-at-arms snorted, conscious of his wish to accompany the host.

"Of course, we'll take you there! You'll be the youngest member of the host, the one who will bring good luck. No need to say you'll have to prove yourself. It's a great honor."

_Some people don't understand why Tywin is so generous with me and they'll let me know I don't belong with the host._ Now he could read between the lines. Sandor nodded eagerly and took the sword he had been given; like the rest of his equipment, it was someone else's. The master-at-arms had liberally offered him everything, from the shield to the mismatched armor, picking up discarded weapons and old plate forgotten by some careless squire. His uncommon size had complicated Master Symon's task and Sandor knew he wore the most pathetic armor of the Seven Kingdoms.

"There are plenty of good armorsmiths in King's Landing," Master Symon taunted him, as if he could read his thoughts. "Fencing position, Clegane!"

* * *

When he came in the kitchens, she was having a bad day: she shouted at Willa and one of the boys who had spilled some soup on the tiles who ran away before she could chide him. All of a sudden, Fat Jeyne turned around, her chest heaving and he met her sad eyes. _She already knows._

As he frantically searched his brain for something appropriate to say, he stepped forward, then raised his head to look at her: the girls were gone, as if they understood their presence would be intrusive. He stared at the grey-haired woman, standing, hands on her hips in the deserted kitchens and his enthusiasm for their journey to King's Landing immediately vanished.

"So you're leaving," she stated.

Now that his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, he could see the wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and above all, the weariness in her gaze. Whenever a member of his kin died, a feeling of being forsaken had overwhelmed him – soon replaced by a seething rage – and for the first time in his life, he had the impression that he abandoned someone. It was way more disturbing than the prospect of giving free rein to his natural tendency to hit and to hurt.

Somehow, he knew she expected him to talk and he wanted to say something as well, but the words were stuck in his throat, so he simply shrugged.

"Lord Tywin changed his mind overnight," she commented, a bit stiffly. "Didn't think it would be so soon. Are you happy to make war, boy?"

"I don't know."

That was all he was able to say and it was sincere. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as they carefully avoided each other's gaze. Sandor thought of the kitchen maids who were waiting somewhere outside, of Kevan who was most likely looking for him, of how ashamed he would feel if he started to cry, which was likely, but his feet seemed glued to the greasy tiles and he stayed there, silent.

"Promise me to take care of yourself, Sandor," she stuttered, placing a dark lock behind his ear. "You're a big boy, now. I'll give you some food, for the journey: dry sausage, cheese... Things you can keep a week or two. I know you're a big eater, but make it last, if you can."

"We'll be back soon," he said, in a derisory attempt to reassure her.

It didn't work and he felt terribly stupid when her lower lip began to tremble.

"I'm an old woman. Who will carry the heavy logs if you're not here?" she asked, trying to laugh. "Your brother will be there, so you'd better stay with Ser Gerion. He's a good man, Ser Gerion. Be careful, Sandor, and come back to me soon."

"Take care," he replied. "Take care and-"

He couldn't finish his sentence and embraced her, the way he would have embraced his mother. She clutched to him, her fingers tangling in his hair, repressing a sob. She smelt of lemons and green peas, that day, a smell that disgusted Kevan and infuriated him whenever Sandor had spent too much time in the kitchens. _I'll miss this smell._ She finally pulled away and told him to go, wiping her tears with the back of her plump hands, almost chiding him.

When he left her, he felt different. There was a persistent sadness, which made him sigh from time to time, and the intuition that he could never see her again. However, a sort of pride budded inside him: it had nothing to do with his impending departure for King's Landing: it was the thought, very simple yet unfamiliar, that somebody would be waiting for his return.

* * *

_If someone sings 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' once more, I swear I'll rip out his tongue._ They had been on the road for five days, now, and everybody kept on telling him how much he would learn during their journey, how many lessons he would receive in such a short amount of time. They thought of lessons about warfare and swordplay and camp life.

However, as far as camp life was concerned, Sandor had learned one single lesson he would undoubtedly remember for the rest of his life: he hated groups and couldn't stand the over-closeness with squires, knights and the rest of the Lannister host. He craved for solitude. He missed the thick wooden doors and the bolts which allowed him not to be disturbed. Under the canvass tents, one could never be alone for a long time; there were always men shouting and laughing somewhere.

During the day, as they rode on the River Road, he had ingenuously thought it would be exhilarating to be on a horse and to discover unfamiliar landscapes: and it was admittedly pleasing, but his pleasure vanished every time a squire or a knight began to bellow 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'.

_"Oh I'm a maid,"_

_" And I'm pure and fair,"_

_"I'll never dance,"_

_"With a hairy bear,"_

_"A bear! A bear!"_

_"I'll never dance,"_

_"With a hairy bear!"_

Sandor couldn't say he had something against that song before; he knew it by heart, even sang it – before becoming aware he had the most twangy voice of the Westerlands – but when Peckledon decided that it would be fun to bawl it whenever they meet someone on the road, Sandor quickly understood why his father always say that silence was golden. _Can't someone tell him to shut up?_ His companions beamed senselessly and sang along.

When they all sang together, Bannermen, squires and foot soldiers, the sound was deafening; it was like Tywin's host wanted to be heard leagues away. _To threaten our enemies? Don't we have the drum for that purpose?_

Sandor had made one friend during the first days of their journey, despite the usual taunting of the squires, and Kevan would have disapproved, for sure: the drummer who accompanied the host, a miner's son from Nunn's Deep. Talbert was four-and-ten, had freckles all over his face and was too scared of the other boys to refuse Sandor's help, the day Banefort and his friends planned to throw him in the nearest river, to make sure the boy couldn't swim.

Somehow, the dry sausages offered by Fat Jeyne helped as well their nascent friendship. They used to chew bits of dry meat at night, by the fire, while men sang and drank away the tiredness of the day. They barely talked, Sandor being too shy and Talbert not wishing to put his new friend's patience to the test; Talbert seemed in awe of his height, his strength and his taciturn behavior. Sandor was silently enjoying the salty taste of dry sausage and watching the flames when a shrill laughter made him turn his head; there were two women chatting and laughing with a bunch of archers nearby.

"Why are those women here?" he asked Talbert with a suspicious tone.

In his mind, things were quite simple: men worked and fought while a woman's place was in the kitchens. A feminine presence within the camp, among the soldiers, was incongruous.

"They're washerwomen," Talbert replied, pleased to notice he could impress Sandor with his knowledge.

"Washerwomen? This is nonsense; I can take care of my clothes."

That was probably another reason why Kevan wrinkled his nose every time he met him in Casterly Rock. Talbert chuckled, until Sandor's gaze darkened with anger.

"We call them washerwomen, but they don't really wash clothes," he explained. They're just camp followers. Whores, if you prefer. I'd wager you've never been with a woman."

Sandor stared at his new friend and decided he was getting too bold.

"'Cause you've been with a woman? You don't even have a beard! I bet the last time you saw tits was when your mother still breastfed you."

With that, he sat back and cut another slice of dry sausage; as remorse crept in a corner of his mind, he offered some to Talbert. _I should talk to these women and tell them to stay away from Gregor_ , he thought. He got on his feet so abruptly the drummer looked at him in astonishment and he walked towards the group formed by the archers and the so-called washerwomen.

Feeling terribly awkward, he cleared his throat. One of the two women was already wriggling and laughing in the oldest archer's arms, a plump redhead who seemed to draw every man's attention, so he chose to tug the other woman's sleeve. She turned around to face him, took in his height and broad shoulders but her smile vanished when she saw the unburnt half of his face – thanks to the darkness, she couldn't see the scars hidden by his hair: _a child_ , he read in her surprised look. She was a mere child, as well: a lanky girl with dark brown hair, dark eyes and a flat bosom.

"What is it you want, cutie?" she asked him with a hint of impatience. "I don't do children. Come back in a few years. Please."

He went red bright, at the thought of what she had imagined and tried to ignore her sarcasm.

"I don't ask for anything, I just want to warn you. See the big man on your left, taller than anyone else? Ser Gregor. Stay away from him, don't talk to him, don't... don't lay with him."

He realized he was out of breath, mostly because of his uneasiness, and waited for the girl's reaction.

"You should tell your friend, too. He's dangerous. I mean it," he added.

She crossed her arms tightly, in a desperate attempt to bring attention on her small breasts.

"Why should I trust you about him?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "Mayhap you're just a nasty boy who wants to ruin this young man's night?"

"He's a killer," he whispered, hoping the archers wouldn't hear him. "He's got blood on his hands."

She burst out laughing, throwing back her head, and it sounded quite artificial; he wondered if cheap wine caused this fit of laughter or if she was just exaggerating her self-confidence.

"Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them."

The girl shrugged to show how little she cared about his opinion, and gave him a condescending smile, hoping he would understand and leave her with her new friends. Sandor shook his head in helplessness and saw her expression changing; her eyes were now wide open and disgust made her cringe. _She saw my scars._ He wanted to run away but he resisted the urge, eager to give the girl one reason to stay away from his brother.

"See my scars?" he told her with as much casualness as possible, "Want to know who did that to me?" He gestured towards Gregor. "Now, believe me or not, I don't give a damn. If you or the likes of you want to get killed, that's your business. I was just saying."

In front of him, the girl hesitated between absolute panic and annoyance; in the end, irritation prevailed.

"I told you to come back in a few years but don't," she said with a malevolent smile."I don't do cripples either."

He clenched his fists and dug his nails deep in his palms not to slap her face. Fortunately, the archers had finally noticed his presence and one of them decided he was old enough to get drunk.

"We're going to see if a big boy like you is able to hold his drink!" the oldest archer exclaimed.

He had left the red-headed woman with one of his friends and he grabbed Sandor's shoulders unceremoniously. He made him sit by the fire and forced him to drink out of his wineskin. That's how Sandor got drunk for the first time, sharing wine with men he barely knew and sitting across an infuriated girl who had rejected him.

* * *

He felt terrible. Terrible and betrayed; nobody had ever told him one could feel so bad, so miserable after drinking. Drinking was supposed to be fun and it had been somehow: after a while – after the first wineskin, precisely – he had completely forgotten the stupid girl who didn't want to believe him, forgotten his brother, as well. He had even thought that the archers were the better companions one could dream of, and told himself it was good to be surrounded by people shouting and singing.

The first rays of light dissipated the well-being he had felt a few hours ago and made his thoughts of the night before seem foolish. Kneeling by the stream, he sprayed himself with some fresh water. _Disappointing._ He needed something more drastic to get rid of his queasiness so he plunged his head under the water, then shook himself like the dog he was in the eyes of the other squires.

He grabbed the bucket he had taken before leaving the place where he had ended up the night before, collected some water and got back to Tywin's tent. If Tywin wanted to make his relationship with the squires more difficult, he couldn't take a better decision: Sandor had lost his master with Kevan staying in Casterly Rock, so Tywin had settled on having the boy serving him, even if Banefort had been his squire for four years.

Thus, Tywin had two squires constantly fighting each other to obey his orders. And that morning, Sandor wanted to take advantage on Banefort who was probably still sleeping it off somewhere. A smug smile creeping on his twisted lips, he slalomed between the tents, the soldiers who had fallen asleep outside and the remains of last night's bender – empty wineskins and suspect puddles smelling of vomit – until he reached his lord's tent.

Tywin was already awoken and asked Sandor to bring him fresh clothes, not before questioning his damp hair and ungroomed looks. All of a sudden, Banefort stormed in the tent, as disheveled as his young rival. _He woke up with a start and thought he would be the first one in Tywin's tent. But I won._ Sandor rewarded him with a scowl, then noticed a sparkle of amusement in Tywin's eyes. _Maybe he did it on purpose and wanted to see if we would tear each other to pieces._

"Clegane, I need to talk to Ser Gerion. Please find him," Tywin commanded. "Banefort, go fetch some more water."

Even Tywin's orders seemed to acknowledge his morning victory over Banefort and this certitude wiped away the last memories of his hangover; he rushed out of the tent and ran to the opposite side of the camp, where Gerion had settled for the night. Tywin's younger brother was almost ready and welcomed him with a frown.

"Did you try to drown yourself or something? And what's that smell? Seven hells, you've been drinking!"

Eyes downcast, Sandor didn't dare to look at him. Gerion chuckled.

"Was it your first night of bender?" he asked, hardly concealing his curiosity. Sandor nodded and Gerion patted his shoulder. "Tell me, boy, what was it like?"

"Good," he decided abruptly. "It was good."

"Talkative as ever," Gerion commented. "At least, you won't boast yourself about your feats. What is it that my brother wants?"

As Sandor explained he didn't have the slightest idea, Gerion stretched his arms over his head and stared at the meadow where the Lannister host had spent the night; his gaze embraced the tents, the heaps of ashes where soldiers had made camp fires, the lazy forms still curled under a blanket.

"I don't like camp life either," he confessed suddenly, before heading to his brother's tent.


	8. The Lion Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the outward detachment and cold humor, Sandor realized Tywin was more concerned by his safety than he thought. However, he didn't care about Tywin's games to develop rivalry between him and Banefort, he was tired of his liege lord's paternalistic attitude. We are all pawns he can play with or discard as he pleases: Gregor, the host, myself, the people of this city, even the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank all the people who left kudos: your support helps me and makes me feel very lucky.  
> Thanks to Underthenorthernlights, who edited this chapter with her usual patience and wise advice!

He didn't try to drink after his terrible headache. Maybe he should have; Gregor's presence never very far from him drove Sandor mad and, night after night, he had bad dreams. _Would it be different, if I was drunk?_ If someone had asked him to tell what he saw behind his closed eyelids, he couldn't describe the dreadful images; he usually didn't remember them, but he knew for sure he woke up with a start every night.

Banefort, who slept beside him, would grunt something about him being too noisy before going back to sleep instantly, leaving Sandor alone with his blurred nightmare and ragged breath. He knew he had to be quiet, since Tywin was lying in the next tent, so he just wrapped his arms around his knees and cradled himself, like the big, oversized boy he was. Sometimes, after he had had one of these terrifying dreams, he questioned his ability to fight on a battlefield: if the images churning in his feverish head frightened him so much, how could he behave like the warrior Tywin wanted him to be? _I don't want to be a craven._ However he knew he wasn't like Serrett who had pissed his pants when Sandor had put his blade on the squire's throat. He knew he was different from the swaggering squires who screamed and wept as soon as they saw their enemy; it was just his brother's presence that panicked and infuriated him at the same time.

One of the nights the Lannister host spent in the countryside, by the road leading to King's Landing, Sandor found out that taking care of his mount soothed his nerves, though it never prevented him from having nightmares; whenever he brushed the smooth, shining flanks of his bay horse, he breathed easier, as if the animal's equanimity rubbed off on him. Removing pebbles from the horseshoes required all his concentration because he didn't want to get kicked and eventually he listened to the horse's even breathing until he felt sleepy.

* * *

They had been on the road for two weeks when a knight belonging to House Drox stormed in Tywin's tent, right after Sandor brought supper. The fair-haired man had a massive chest contrasting with his short twisted legs. On his gaunt face, Sandor could read both thrill and apprehension as he held out a scroll to Tywin. Tywin's brow raised when he saw the knight's unexpected arrival disturbing his meal and he slowly wiped his mouth with a white cloth, before grabbing the message and unfolding it.

"Ser Gilbert," Tywin said flatly.

Tension filled the tent as the Lord of Casterly Rock took his time to read the scroll; while the knight probably feared to bring bad news, Banefort and Sandor readied themselves to answer Tywin's orders – because a raven coming rather late could only deliver a significant message. Banefort strategically drew closer to the writing set enclosed in a tiny chest, in case that Tywin would answer to the message's sender and Sandor prepared to hurry himself between the tents, if his liege lord wanted him to fetch someone or something.

"Banefort!" Tywin called, eliciting a smug smile on Banefort's lips. "Quill and ink, please."

Sandor felt disappointed as Banefort moved past him, prouder than ever. A look at his master allowed him to notice Tywin's uncustomary agitation. _What did he learn? Is it something that could change his plans?_

"Clegane," Tywin said, after a while. "I want Ser Gerion here, as soon as possible."

Banefort fumed when Sandor left. The boy ran between the tents, avoided campfires and camp followers hanging about and finally reached Gerion's tent, where Serret, his squire, told Sandor to go away, but he knew better than yielding to a stupid squire who wanted to impress him. Hearing their quarrel, Gerion showed up and followed Sandor after chiding his own squire.

"What is it?" he asked Sandor and as usual, the boy could only shake his head as they hurried to Tywin's tent.

When they came in, Ser Gilbert was gone and Banefort stood by Tywin, pouting, while his master wrote a message. The Lord of Casterly Rock dismissed both squires. Banefort's disappointment was noticeable; instead of joining his friends like he used to do on such occasions, he stayed by the tent and tried to listen to the Lannister siblings' conversation.

"What are you fucking doing?" Sandor whispered.

It was dark now and he wondered where was Talbert, the drummer. Maybe they could find some quiet place to eat some dry sausage and look at the stars.

"I want to know what's going on!" Banefort said with impatience. "Something puzzled Tywin and I want to know what it is."

Sandor remained perfectly still and pricked up his ears. In the darkness, no one could see them; should they get caught, there was no dungeon here to chastise their indiscretion. Tywin's voice exuded restlessness and Sandor could picture him striding in the exiguous tent.

"... said there was a battle in the Trident. Rhaegar himself commanded the royal forces. He's dead."

"But how?" Gerion nearly shouted in disbelief.

"It seems that Robert killed him. A single combat, that what the cocky Lord of Storm's End likes."

"Can't be true," Banefort whispered to himself. "Can't be true. I'll be knighted next year and Prince Rhaegar has to dub me. Just like he did with your brother."

Sandor elbowed him bluntly; now that they were listening to Tywin and Gerion's conversation, he wanted to know more.

"What are you going to do, now?" Gerion asked his brother.

There was a long silence filled with tension and the waiting gave Sandor enough time to go over the few options his liege lord had: stick to his promise and help the king despite the risk of losing everything or go back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs. _None is satisfactory._

"I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates."

Tywin's voice had regained its softness and its typical hint of condescension.

"Which gates?"

"King's Landing's gates, of course, the Lion Gate. Now, where is my squire?"

Without a second thought, Banefort pushed the tent flap aside and came in, while Sandor didn't move.

"You're pretty quick, Banefort," Tywin commented. "Were you listening to this conversation?"

By Banefort's confused silence, Sandor could tell the knight-to-be was ashamed of his own foolishness.

* * *

 _I'll tell you when we'll reach the gate_ s, Tywin had said.

At the end of the Goldroad, the Lannister host had stopped right in front of the Lion Gate, and the men, raddled after their long journey and exhausted by the oppressive heat, had almost collapsed on the ground. Some foot soldiers had fought to shelter themselves from the sun under the meager trees and finally, a bunch of knights – including a rather nervous Gregor – chased them to claim ownership of the available shade, irrespective of the sunstroke affecting some of the weakest members of the host.

Until now, Tywin didn't utter a single word about his plans and how they would rescue the king. Sandor desperately tried to gather his memories: his father had given him some lessons about strategy and warfare. However, what he saw puzzled him. _We should be inside to protect the king and withstand the rebels' attack. We should use the high walls and prepare ourselves to a potential siege. Mayhap we should tell the inhabitants who can't fight they have to go and come back when everything is over. We need more food and water to resist until those bloody rebels lift the siege..._

The Lannister host, to his great surprise, didn't prepare anything. Tywin, who he considered to be the most smart and far-sighted man he had ever met, had admitted in front of him they had run out of bread and wine, and that observation didn't seem to startle him. Thus, they had stopped in front of the huge gate, whose large opening mimicked a wild beast's mouth; a row of stone lions, bigger than full size, stood guard on each side of the road.

Sandor wondered why the doors weren't open yet; they had come to offer their help, after all, but the thick wooden panels remained closed, their dark color reminding Sandor of the threatening mouth of an animal, ready to swallow its prey. Tywin's orders roused him from his thoughtful drowsiness: the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted him and Banefort to prepare his tent. _How long are we supposed to wait here?_ As he unfolded the thick fabric with Banefort, he couldn't help pondering over the situation.

Once the canvas tent was ready, Tywin gave out a sigh and came in, then told his squires to fetch his brother Gerion and the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands. While Tywin gave his orders, Banefort and Sandor waited outside, without pricking up their ears, this time: the sun made them blink and anyone could have seen two eavesdroppers in the morning light.

The Bannermen all left the tent with a strange expression on their face. _Bewilderment? Anticipation?_ Sandor couldn't tell but it looked like they knew a secret the rest of them – squires, horsemen, archers and lancers – ignored. Finally, Tywin asked for Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch. _They're two of a kind_ , Sandor mused as they entered the tent. Amory Lorch was smaller than Gregor and not half as strong, but with his bovine look and cruel eyes, he looked like the new lord of Clegane's Keep. Whatever Tywin wanted with the two young knights, it required physical strength and obedience, not wits.

While he waited outside of the tent, wiping beads of sweat consistently appearing on his forehead, he caught snatches of conversation.

"... matters greatly... if you want to prove yourself... pledge of allegiance... in Robert's name..."

Despite his efforts, he couldn't hear the rest of Tywin's orders. When Gregor ducked his head to leave the tent, his back tensed immediately; his brother stopped on the threshold and turned around to ask one more question.

"When will they open the gates?" he rasped, still holding the tent flap.

This time, Tywin's voice was perfectly audible, for he didn't need to withhold the answer.

"The rebels are hot on our heels. Soon, I hope."

With that, Tywin called Banefort and Sandor, soon they found themselves face to face with the knights. Sandor held his brother's gaze and finally, after an endless silence, it was Gregor who looked down at him then spat, while Amory Lorch gave out a raucous laughter.

"The Clegane siblings," Banefort commented with a smirk, "the exemplification of brotherly love."

* * *

He still didn't understand why his brother and Amory Lorch wore their plate and had their horses caparisoned as if they readied themselves for a tourney, nor why the two knights were waiting in front of the Lion Gate, despite the heat.

When Tywin told Banefort to join his house, and ordered Sandor to bring his heavy plate armor, he was still puzzled. _Why does he want heavy plate? The fancy armor would be more appropriate for an entry in the capital._ When he brought the last mailed glove, Tywin locked eyes with him and he realized his liege lord was about to say something important, so he froze. In the dim light, Tywin's face had a curious expression: determination, thrill, hope. _And maybe a hint of nervousness, like someone who bet his fortune on the throw of the dice._ His green gaze wandered on Sandor's figure, appraising the width of his shoulders and his muscles.

"This is an important moment, boy," he said softly after a long silence. "Your first battle. Though it won't be on a proper battlefield, but who cares?"

Sandor nodded slightly, wondering what Tywin would tell him next and he deftly fastened the mailed glove.

"We're not going to protect this city, we're not going to rescue the king. I hope you didn't fancy yourself saving Aerys' life, because it's not what I have in mind. As we are talking, the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands gather their men to tell them we're going to take this city, but you don't belong to a noble house and your brother has other fish to fry, so here I am. We'll sack King's Landing and take possession of the Red Keep before these rebel hicks show up."

Sandor felt suddenly dizzy; from the day he split Banefort's lip and got lectured by Tywin, he had thought his overlord would help King Aerys; he had pictured Tywin and Gerion – and perhaps himself – receiving the king's thanks, before the court. _So all this was bullshit?_ The efforts he had made while training in Casterly Rock, the swordplay lessons given by his father, the fact that he was born in a keep and therefore was meant to fight, all this had to end up in the sack of a city. He felt betrayed, even if he was not the king who was swindled by false promises, even if he stood beside the traitor. If he ever noticed his inner turmoil, Tywin didn't say a word about it.

"Do they have soldiers, inside, my lord?" Sandor heard himself ask.

"They're civilians, they're not supposed to defend themselves." His tone was cold, emotionless. "They have some soldiers," he added, "but I doubt they will be a threat. You'll stay with Ser Gerion, though. You're an investment and I hate losing my investments."

Under the outward detachment and cold humor, Sandor realized Tywin was more concerned by his safety than he thought. However, he didn't care about Tywin's games to develop rivalry between him and Banefort, he was tired of his liege lord's paternalistic attitude. _We are all pawns he can play with or discard as he pleases: Gregor, the host, myself, the people of this city, even the king._

"Why?" he asked, and his angry tone made any precision unnecessary.

A despising smile curled up Tywin's lips. With his heavy plate armor, he looked more threatening than ever.

"Where will you go, Clegane, if I send you away? If you want my protection, there's but one rule to remember. Never question my orders." He deliberately stressed the last words, staring Sandor down. "Ser Gregor never questions my orders," he said, slowly shaking his head.

Sandor wondered what it meant, what could be these orders his brother had received and the interrogation sent shivers down his spine.

A few minutes later, every member of the Lannister host was ready for the impending battle, though the lords had told them to hide their armor or their weapons under their cloaks. They all held tightly the thick fabric that looked incongruous under the warm sun, sweating and cursing in an undertone. On top of the high walls, on either side of the Lion Gate, sentries looked down at them, unaware of the danger. _Gold Cloaks, most likely. Bloody fools_ , Sandor thought, as he walked toward Gerion. _As soon as the gates open, you'll be dead men._ Gerion was tense, his long cloak concealing his sword hand already on the hilt; he gave Sandor a curt nod, whispered he should always stay by his side and stared at the closed gates.

Sandor spun on his heels; the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands had gathered their men around them, and if the lords were mounted, most of the horsemen and knights were on foot, to make their progression easier in the narrow streets of King's Landing. Even that detail didn't seem to startle the sentinels standing on the rampart walk. Finally, he heard men shouting on the high walls and around the Lion Gate; then, after a few heartbeats, a loud, creaking noise revealed the sentries had removed the bar locking the heavy door: a shiver of anticipation spread across the host. Sandor's mouth went dry when the hinges slowly grated; the dark wooden panels moved inch by inch, showing the dirty cobblestones paving the broad street, a foot soldier, shyly looking at them and some inhabitants, ready to welcome their saviors.

With a deliberate slowness, Tywin's mare went forward, moved past Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch, and finally crossed the Lion Gate. As his mounted figure was still under the arches of the gate and without turning around on his saddle, Tywin raised his right hand and motioned his men in. It was a small gesture and the sentinels didn't even notice it. However, Sandor knew it would seal these men's fate and beyond that, the fate of all the men, women and children who had sheltered themselves behind the high walls.


	9. The Sack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lowered his eyes to the corpse lying at his feet and the memories of his conversation with the camp follower washed over him. 'Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them'. He glanced at his sword hand; even if he had wiped it on the cloak, both his palm and fingers were sticky, with red stains. And I'm a killer too. What I just did makes me a killer, like them, like Gregor. His hand looked different, all of a sudden; he knew the broad palm and the long fingers, recognized the scars, old or fresh, marking the back of his hand, and was familiar with the nails bitten and filthy but the blood dripping from the blade made it completely new to him. It wasn't his hand but a paw belonging to a soldier. Belonging to a killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic violence and mentions of rape, murder and child murder. If you feel uncomfortable with these themes, you should probably not read this chapter. 
> 
> Once more, I'd like to thank Underthenorthernlights for her beta skills and her patience. Your advice on this chapter was priceless, dear!
> 
> As this chapter has been the most difficult to write so far – because of the violence of the Sack and because I wanted to follow the canon as much as I could – any feedback will be appreciated!

He was among the men who immediately followed Tywin when he entered the city; Gerion and him were on foot, with a bunch of handpicked knights and a group of archers carrying crossbows. As soon as they showed up and positioned themselves on both sides of Tywin's mount, the sentries began to stiffen and to wonder what their savior, the powerful Warden of the West, wanted. On the livid faces half disappearing under old visor-less helmets, Sandor read their terror and, to his great astonishment, the fear that made one of them cling to his spear roused his own urge to fight and to destroy.

Everyone was silent in front the Lion Gate, except the inhabitants standing further in the street, ready to welcome the Lannister host, and tension filled the small square when Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch finally came on their caparisoned horses. They pulled the reins to stop near Tywin, who nodded in acquiescence.

"To the Red Keep, as I said," Tywin confirmed.

He didn't take the trouble to whisper his orders; Sandor read it as a display of his self-confidence. Tywin, at that instant, had the certainty no one could prevent him from doing as he pleased, not even the Gold Cloaks who stood in front of his mount and whose breathing was more and more erratic. Tywin's face, usually so serious, lighted up with an unwholesome joy. _He anticipates what's going to happen and he rejoices in advance._ _Fuck, what are those orders? Catch the king himself? No, he wouldn't have sent Gregor if he wanted to find the king in a dungeon when he'll arrive at the Red Keep. He knows exactly what my bastard of a brother does. He wants him to kill someone. Probably the king._

At that thought, he felt goosebumps on his arms and the macabre images he left Clegane's Keep with churned into his head. Ivy, ruined and slaughtered on the red tiles of the kitchens, her head resting in a black pool. His father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his black horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. _Come on, you can handle this._ He clenched his teeth and looked away, knowing that at the end of that day he would just have another good reason to kill his brother. _When the time comes._

A sadistic smile matching the weird expression on Tywin's face spread across Gregor's lips; he spurred his horse and left, jostling a sentry who looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then Gregor and Amory Lorch were gone, leaving a wake of startled looks and screams among the inhabitants who waited for help and only saw brutish knights. _Go away, lock yourself in your houses while you still can avoid this madness._

"M'lord," one of the sentries told Tywin, his voice shaking, "Manly Stokeworth, our commander will be here soon. He wanted to welcome you per-"

"Manly Stokeworth?" Tywin repeated, looking down at the man. "Tell me about it!"

Behind him, most of the Lannister men barked the coarsest of laughters. The man who had talked to Tywin wore black breastplates with four golden disks on it; Sandor realized he could be an officer of the Gold Cloaks, probably the captain in charge of the Lion Gate. The man clad in black took a step further and glared at Tywin, though he was most likely shaking.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until Lord Stokeworth arrives, my lord," he said, steadying his breath.

From where he was, Sandor could only catch a glimpse at Tywin's right side, when he looked up at him. On the clean-shaved face, he saw the corner of his lips slowly pulling up in a smile.

"Jonah, is that right? When I'm done with you, Jonah," Tywin said flatly, "your wife won't be able to recognize you, but it doesn't really matter because she won't live long enough to identify your body. You see, in the end, the fact that we first met when I was the Hand of the King doesn't change anything."

Tywin drew his sword and so did all the men around Sandor. Master Symon nudged him so that he did the same. _Go away, please, don't resist_ , Sandor begged silently, even though he knew his pleading was useless. Around their captain, the Gold Cloaks clang to their spears. At first, nobody moved, then Sandor noticed a young Gold Cloak who didn't stare at the Lannister men, nor at Tywin, but looked intently at his horse's chest. _Aye, that's what I would do if I had a spear._

Suddenly, a bolt burst out of the Lannister ranks and hit a Gold Cloak's head; Tywin protested, eager to know who had started the fight without waiting for his order, but it was too late. The screams threw both groups into complete and utter confusion. Although nobody paid the young Gold Cloak any attention, Sandor abruptly shoved Master Symon to reach the reins of Tywin's horse and made him step backwards. The master-at-arms shouted, Tywin yelled and tried to get rid of Sandor's grasp, but the whinnying mount moved in the nick of time and avoided the sharp blade of the Gold Cloak.

As the steel head of the spear brushed the horse's chest, a pair of stunned green eyes briefly met Sandor's before Master Symon disarmed and gutted Tywin's assailant. Sandor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned to face the remaining Gold Cloaks; the sentries were already outnumbered, but when a Gold Cloak presumed that the boy who had just saved Tywin's life was too young not to be an easy target and tried to impale him with his spear, Sandor remembered the Master Symon's moves a few moments before.

He forced the Gold Cloak to parry his blows until his spear was less a weapon than a disadvantage; in front of Sandor's fury and fast blows, the man couldn't just drop it and unsheathe his sword, so he took the spear with both hands and held it like a derisory shield. The wooden shaft wasn't hard enough, even for Sandor's blunt blade: it soon broke, leaving the Gold Cloak with a sort of useless club he waved in front of his enemy. Sandor could read the panic on the man's face, as he had read it before in the squires' gaze, back in Casterly Rock.

_But today, it's not for a laugh, it's real._ The man lowered his eyes for a heartbeat, just enough time to unsheathe the sword he urgently needed and Sandor seized the occasion to dig in his abdomen. The Gold Cloak gasped, dropping his sword on the cobblestones, and put both hands on his belly in a desperate attempt to hold his bowels. Whereas the man clang onto his life, his fingers grabbing the blade so hard his knuckles went white, Sandor looked at his contorted face. The sword sank in the soft flesh, yet the Gold Cloak resisted and stood there, despite his wobbling legs.

When the shaking figure collapsed on the ground, he thought it was over before an iron grip forced him to his knees. At that point, Sandor couldn't avoid the Gold Cloak's gaze; he saw agonizing pain, then the survival instinct that pushed him to hold on his opponent as long as he could and finally, as the brown eyes glistened with tears, the simple yearning for peace and oblivion. The fingers tightly encircling Sandor's wrist let go and fell on the black breastplate.

Suddenly, Sandor realized there were only a pair of glassy eyes, fixed and lifeless and a foul smell coming from the abdomen. Sandor tried to remove his blade from the man's midsection, slowly, inch by inch, as if he feared to hurt him now, and scrutinized the blade. It was red with a brown sticky substance by places: disgusted, he wiped his sword in the golden woolen cloak, leaving a brown-red stain on it.

Getting on his feet turned out to be more difficult than he thought: he staggered and felt like he couldn't glance at the dead body anymore. _But I fought him, I looked him straight in the eyes when I dug in his belly, so why is it different now?_ His hands, contracted on the hilt of his sword all along their fight, suddenly ached and he found a metallic taste in his mouth. _Blood._

He lowered his eyes to the corpse lying at his feet and the memories of his conversation with the camp follower washed over him. _Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them._ He glanced at his sword hand; even if he had wiped it on the cloak, both his palm and fingers were sticky, with red stains. _And I'm a killer too. What I just did makes me a killer, like them, like Gregor._ His hand looked different, all of a sudden; he knew the broad palm and the long fingers, recognized the scars, old or fresh, marking the back of his hand, and was familiar with the nails bitten and filthy but the blood dripping from the blade made it completely new to him. It wasn't his hand but a paw belonging to a soldier. _Belonging to a killer._

Gerion's hand on his shoulder startled him and Sandor spun on his heels, more than happy to turn his back to the accusing corpse. Tywin's brother had a somber expression; his eyes roamed over the squire, taking in the ragged breath, the distraught gaze and the bloodied hands.

"The heart, Clegane. Remember it, next time, and give your opponent a clean death."

Ashamed and keeping his eyes downcast, Sandor nodded.

"Come now, we're done here. Tywin is waiting for us."

When he looked up, the square was full of Lannister knights and soldiers hurrying themselves in different directions; wherever his eyes fell, dead sentries lying on the ground mimicked the one he didn't want to look at. _A killer among killers. And I can't do anything about it._ Gerion tugged his mailed arm: it was time to go.

* * *

_It all happened as if I had forgotten about the host and the City Watch, as if there was nobody else, except the Gold Cloak and me. I didn't see nor hear anything while I fought this man; it feels like I missed the skirmish. I have no recollection at all._

Gerion scurried along the narrow streets of King's Landing; Tywin was fifty yards ahead, slowly progressing on his mount, surrounded by a cluster of Lannister knights and archers. Heading for the Red Keep, he talked with Master Symon. Other groups had been sent to Flea Bottom, to the harbor or to the Old Gate where the rebel host was expected to arrive soon. _The Baratheon host_ , he corrected right away. _And the Stark forces, probably eager to know about the Stark girl. She's dead now, most likely, and I guess it's just as well for her. Prince Rhaegar didn't abduct the girl to sing her pretty songs and to put wreaths of flowers on her head._

Gerion sped up, forcing Sandor to lengthen his stride, and they finally caught up with the group led by Tywin. Sandor had never traveled previously and didn't even know Lannisport, his father assuming that his burns turned his younger son to a subject of taunting and therefore leaving him at Clegane's Keep whenever he had to go to the biggest city of the Westerlands. King's Landing was like a new world for a boy who had spent the past years in the woods and fields surrounding his father's keep, yet he didn't want to ask any question and look like a country bumpkin. It wasn't the right moment either.

He nevertheless contemplated the timber-frame houses, their porches used for trade, their jettied upper story proudly towering above the street. King's Landing inhabitants had felt the danger and immediately emptied the porches of the goods they contained; for the same reason, shutters hid the windows. He imagined families gathered on the upper floor, locked in their houses and anxiously waiting for the end of the day. The street weaved between houses so tall with their jettied upper story they darkened the sky and one could have the impression that two men standing on the third floor balcony on either side could easily shake hands.

On the ground, although the street they were in seemed rather large and was presumably busy on ordinary days, there was more filth and mud than cobblestones by places, and the men had to avoid the open sewer; Tywin's horse paid close attention not to walk in, like some dainty girl wearing her finest dress. They had only seen a pig scrounging around for scraps so far; as soon as the skirmish began at the gates, the townsfolk had understood and run away, sheltering themselves where they could and leaving a strange atmosphere in the capital, as if time was suspended. Thus, their group progressed cautiously in the deserted streets.

A faint hope sprouted up in Sandor's mind. _Mayhap people are too afraid to leave their houses. They stay where they are; they dare not protest or fight back. If they're smart enough to hide themselves, there won't be any bloodshed. I won't have to draw my sword again._ Clinging onto this idea, Sandor felt reassured as they got closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. _We've been walking for a good while, now; the Red Keep can't be very far._  

Suddenly, he remembered his brother and the mysterious orders Tywin had given; he shook his head, refusing to picture what Gregor was doing and who he was hurting at that instant. Men kept alert in the surroundings of the Great Sept; Sandor caught a glimpse at the marble plaza and the dome-shaped sept, bewildered to see with his own eyes something that was until now a clumsy drawing on the old book he learned to read in. The seven crystal towers sparkled in the afternoon sun, their eerie structure rising into the air.

"We have no time for that," Master Symon growled in a chiding tone, when he noticed Sandor's mesmerized gaze.

"Look at the roofs," Tywin ordered, shifting on his saddle and turning his head over his shoulder. "If the City Watch reorganized its forces, they'll be on the roofs, ready to fire quarrels on us."

Instead of spotting a potential enemy on the roofs, they heard a clamor on their right, once the Great Sept was behind them.

"Could be those you sent to the harbor, my lord," Ser Daven Estren suggested.

Ser Daven was so small and frail Sandor often asked himself how Tywin could have dubbed him and if he had ever been able to joust. He nevertheless was more clever than most of the Lannister knights.

"I told them to stay in the harbor and take hold of it," Tywin retorted, frowning. "We'd better check this out."

With a sweeping gesture, he motioned them all on the right and the men hurried themselves behind him. In this part of the town, the streets seemed awfully narrow compared to the large plaza of the Sept. _Narrow and dark, even in broad daylight._

"Is it a fire?" a young archer asked.

He was only three or four years older than Sandor and didn't look very confident; wordlessly, he pointed at a greyish plume of smoke rising behind a cluster of houses and shops. _Fire_ , Sandor thought, breaking into a cold sweat. They heard more shrieks and Tywin's horse sped up, forcing the rest of them to run. The fire was close, perhaps no more than fifty yards on their right, yet the intricate mass of high buildings prevented them from seeing anything; they reached the corner of the street and Tywin stopped abruptly.

The junction of three narrow streets had created a small triangular square; on their left, what had been once the stables of an inn burned and the thick beams supporting its roof collapsed one after the other. The adjoining tavern could be ablaze soon; the prospect of walking past the fire transfixed Sandor. A gut-wrenching cry made him jump and he turned his head to see who had just screamed, but he only spotted a woman lying on the cobblestones, in front of the tavern; from where he was standing, he discerned the deep red cut on her throat and her hitched up skirts. _Ivy_ , he thought, as a blind fury took hold of him. _She's just like Ivy._

Beside her, there was a heap of cloth: a gust of wind unveiled the pink and tiny face of a baby. The child wasn't moving anymore and the realization he was as dead as his mother infuriated Sandor. His turmoil was noticeable enough, for Master Symon put his big hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, as if a simple touch could wipe the image of a slaughtered woman with her dead child. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and shot Symon a furious and disgusted look. _So you think you can protect me from this? Because you're old and seasoned, you believe you can reassure me with a stupid gesture? I don't need no comfort, I already know all this. You would piss your pants if I told you what happened in the woods, when I ran away from Clegane's Keep._

Master Symon held his stare, frowning, then dropped his hand. Suddenly, another shriek resounded in the small square and they all scanned the timber-frame houses on their right, wondering which one sheltered the person who had let out that cry. The shutters of the third house were open, unlike most of the other buildings and they caught a glimpse at a Lannister foot soldier, on the second floor. With his long nose and weak chin, the brown-haired man looked like a weasel; a purse in his hands, he froze as soon as he realized Tywin had seen him.

_To add insult to injury, they plunder_ , Sandor mused.

"Get out!" Tywin shouted, with an imperious gesture.

They heard some bustle in the house, foreshadowing the arrival of contrite soldiers. Three Lannister men exited the house and timidly stepped forward, moving past the baby and his mother.

"Who's in charge, here?" Tywin asked. "I sent you with Lord Banefort to hold the harbor!"

"Told us we could push on and go the Great Sept, m'lord!" the weasel-face explained.

"To light candles and pray the Mother?" Gerion hissed, pointing at the dead woman.

The three foot soldiers looked at each other, one of them frantically shaking his head.

"They put up resistance, m'lord," the weasel-face went on, his innocent eyes widening.

In view of his untruthful tale, Sandor's stomach churned. Deep in his throat, he felt the acid taste of bile; he gritted his teeth and instantly clenched his fists. _If I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did..._ The hooves of Tywin's horse impatiently resonated on the cobblestones.

"If the Lannister host steals and plunders, people will believe I don't handsomely pay my men," Tywin spat. "They'll imagine there's no more gold in the mines under my control and I'll be pissed off. Is that what you want?"

_Fuck, what about the murdered woman?_ The three men shook their head and the weasel-face bowed in front of Tywin's mount with a fawning expression.

"Now, come with us," Tywin ordered, leading the group through the small square; they walked past the ablaze stables and the dead bodies.

Sandor noticed more corpses further; two dead men, one leaning back against a cart wheel and one lying on his stomach, a dagger stuck in his back.

"What about the screaming we heard?" Sandor asked Master Symon. "Shouldn't we-"

"Just forget it, boy," the man replied, avoiding his gaze.

The three plunderers followed, a sheepish look on their face. On both sides of the street starting at the small square, the doors were open, revealing soldiers had visited these houses. The group progressed slowly, still expecting some kind of rebellion, although nothing came. Every time he turned to glare at the weasel-face, Sandor found him and his companions further behind the group. The three men whispered to each other, sometimes nodding, sometimes shrugging but always kept a close eye on Tywin.

Now that the Great Sept was behind them, the Red Keep loomed over the city, its assumptive towers rising in the cloudless sky, trumpeting no one could ever take hold of its high walls. _But Gregor is out there and whoever Tywin told him to kill, he probably succeeded._

A grating voice suddenly broke the silence and a bunch of Gold Cloaks emerged from an alley on their left, sword in hand. They were only six and most likely knew they couldn't defeat the Lannister men, yet they threw themselves on Tywin before the crossbowmen could draw the bowstring, assuming that once their leader dead the Westerlands host would break down. The Lannister knights unsheathed their swords and fought back, while the archers let fly their quarrels.

Two Gold Cloaks fell at once; far from frightening their companions, their death gave them a surge of anger. One disarmed and stabbed Ser Daven who almost collapsed in Sandor's arms: leaving the wounded knight on the cobblestones, he pounced on the Gold Cloak who didn't realize what was happening before Sandor's blade pierced his chest. Surprised by his own boldness, Sandor held the man's vacant stare until the Gold Cloak's legs gave out, and watched him again as he laid on the ground.

_I aimed at the heart, like Gerion had said._ Behind him, the other Gold Cloaks were dead and Master Symon leaned over Ser Daven, a puzzled look on his face. Although the frail knight moved slightly, the master-at-arms swept the little group until he found Tywin's eyes and he shook his head.

"He won't make it," he announced, taking the knight's hand in his.

Sandor stared at Tywin, even if he knew it was rude, and tried to decipher his expression. The Lord of Casterly Rock had removed his mailed gloves and he could see the knuckles turning white on the horse's reins, but his face remained impassible. Sensing his eyes on him, Tywin looked back at Sandor and tilted his head to catch a glimpse at the result of the boy's fury; he observed the Gold Cloak Sandor had slain, fallen all sprawled out on the ground, then he nodded. His green gaze would haunt Sandor for days and make him wonder what Tywin had in mind at that instant: was it some recognition of the boy's value? Was it a gesture of reassurance directed to a young squire facing his first battle? Or did Tywin simply nod to himself, admitting he had hit the nail on the head about Sandor's skills?

Ser Daven breathed his last breath and Master Symon closed his eyes before covering his body with the knight's cloak. Tywin's men silently gathered around the body and this token of respect somehow hurt Sandor: he had nothing against Daven, but the fact that they took time for him while they had ignored the dead woman and her babe seemed unfair. He felt a lump in his throat, but Master Symon, who stood beside him, misapprehended his reaction and squeezed his arm with a sort of paternalistic concern.

"You'll be just fine," he promised Sandor.

_You don't understand anything, old man._ When he raised his eyes, Tywin was scanning the surroundings, knitting his brow.

"Did anyone see the foot soldiers? The thieves?" he asked coldly.

"Fuck, they're gone!" Gerion exclaimed. "They disobeyed; we shouldn't let them go-"

"I'll find them!" Sandor announced and he saw Tywin nodding in acquiescence.

He was already retracing his steps, convinced they would go back to the small square where they had left their loot, when he heard Tywin's voice.

"Symon, go with the boy. I'm pretty sure he'll find them, but I don't want him to get lost."

Tywin's order irritated him more than he could say. _And he tells Master Symon to go with me, like a wet nurse or something! All Symon can do is slow me down. He's too fat to run!_ Behind him, Symon nevertheless huffed and puffed.

Sandor tried to remember which street they had taken before, relying on the painted signs swaying in front of the closed shops. From time to time, he would gave a look at the roofs, to make sure nobody was about to let fly some quarrels, but he could only think of the weasel-face and the shriek he had heard earlier. When he finally reached the small triangular square where the stables still burned, he had shaken off the master-at-arms. He felt a jolt of anticipation when he spotted a silhouette in the house where they had seen the plunderers, thanks to the open shutter, and ran to the door. The baby and his mother were still there, and he promised to himself he would find some blanket inside the house to cover them.

Once the door shut behind him, he listened carefully. In front of him, there was a flight of wooden stairs and on his left, the workshop of a goldsmith. The workshop seemed empty and the foot soldiers had probably began their search for gold there. He listened again: at first, his heart beat so wildly in his chest he couldn't hear anything, then a creaking noise confirmed there was someone upstairs.

Silently, he removed his worn-out boots and put them near the door, then he slowly climbed the stairs; before he reached the landing, he heard muffled voices and his right hand instinctively grabbed the pommel of his sword. He stopped in front of the first door and pricked up his ears.

"...Told you I heard something!" someone hissed.

"If Lord Tywin is after us, we're dead."

"Cravens. You're just afraid of getting your hands dirty!"

Sandor took a step further, leaned back against the wall, on the left side of the door and slowly unsheathed his sword.

"What was that?" a voice asked, inside.

Before one of the man's companions could answer, Sandor smashed in the door with a single kick and threw himself on the weasel-face. He was aware of the other two foot soldiers' presence in the room, but kept the thought in a corner of his mind and gave in to his blind fury. Dragging the weasel-face in front of the door in order to stand in the way, he straddled him, punched his face, then grabbed his brown hair and pulled hard until the man's head bent back and his Adam's apple jutted out in his long neck.

"Who killed her?" Sandor asked him, as the other plunderers crawled toward the open window. "Did you?"

"Fuck, who are you talking about?" the man whined, mouth covered in blood. "I- I just wanted to have fun with that woman who owned the tavern. But I swear I didn't killed the girl. It was an accident."

_The girl?_ Sandor watched him, hesitating between utter astonishment and disgust.

"We can share what we found with you," the weasel-face suggested. "We could-"

A dagger digging into his chest cut him off. Before he could realize it, Sandor had killed a third man, not to protect his life, nor to avenge Ser Daven's death, but because he couldn't stand what the plunderer implied. He couldn't tolerate being taken for a thief.

"What kind of monster are you?" one of the foot soldiers whispered, clumsily searching for his knife.

This one was as shortish as the weasel-face was lanky; kneeling beside him, a fat man sweated streams under his helmet. Suddenly, the fat one stood up and tried to escape through the open window. Sandor grasped his belt and tried to prevent him from jumping. While the fat man frantically resisted him, the shortish one ran away and Sandor heard him hurtling down the stairs.

"Seven hells, what are you doing?" someone bellowed outside and he recognized Master Symon's voice.

Still struggling with the fat plunderer who leaned out of the window, he spotted the master-at-arms in the middle of the small square.

"I found them, but one escaped. Try to catch him!" he retorted.

Symon might have been surprised by Sandor's commanding tone, but a few heartbeats later, the puffing and panting of two men fighting in the street announced the shortish man was no more on the run. By the time Master Symon climbed the stairs with his prisoner, Sandor had knocked the fat man down and leaned back on the wall, out of breath and exhausted.

As the master-at-arms slowly opened the broken door, Sandor scrutinized the shambles around him and began to understand what had happened there. The room was rather large, with a fireplace; the goldsmith probably lived here with his family, if the two beds and the long table were any indication. During their search, the plunderers had tossed the goldsmith's belongings on the floor, emptying chests and bags, ripping open the mattresses; all around Sandor, they had left a mess of straw, clothes and dishes. _But where is the girl?_

Standing on the threshold and still firmly holding the small man, Master Symon contemplated the dead soldier at his feet, the unconscious one lying on his stomach and let his weary eyes fall on Sandor.

"What have you done, boy?"

The question was simple enough, yet Sandor couldn't speak plainly without revealing a part of the sinister memories still haunting him.

"He killed innocent people. He stole them," he finally answered. "He disobeyed Lord Tywin."

He hoped this clarification would convince Symon. The man sighed heavily, hanging his head, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed faltering, as if he didn't believe his own words.

"You can't kill someone of your own army, you know that, right?"

"He murdered the woman and her babe and probably someone else. Ask him."

The shortish man was too scared not to confess everything Sandor wanted him to say; Ragged Tom, the weasel-face, had killed the woman who owned the tavern across the square, her babe, the goldsmith and his daughter, according to him. He explained that him and the big man had begged Ragged Tom to spare the women's lives, in vain. At that point, whether he couldn't bear his lies or feared what Sandor could do to the shortish man if he didn't react first, Symon slapped him in the face.

"I have to find the girl," Sandor said, while the master-at-arms took a discarded rope to tie the soldiers' hands.

"Look, Clegane," Symon replied, "this city is full of dead girls by now. You can't do anything for her."

Ignoring his advice, Sandor got on his feet, went back to the landing and stared for a while at the other door before opening it. What he saw made him freeze. The plunderers had come in this room and searched for gold or valuables; in the indescribable chaos that remained, only a thick wooden table emerged. The dead body of a blond girl leaned against the table, her hiked up skirts and torn small-clothes showing her legs and her pale bottom. Her once fine clothes were tattered and bloodied. Sandor couldn't see her face reclining on the table and hidden by strands of golden hair; however, another girl's features melt into hers, even if this one was the healthy daughter of a goldsmith and not some peasant girl so desperate she had accepted to work in Clegane's Keep. Even if the scarf oddly wrapping her neck revealed she had been strangled and not beaten to death.

_It's too late. Once more._ He was persuaded the shriek he had heard before they first found the plunderers was hers; the certainty he could have saved her at that moment stung. These men were not Gregor: stopping them wouldn't have been so difficult. He clenched his fists and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Symon had finally tied the two foot soldiers; when he joined Sandor he couldn't help cursing.

"You can't do anything for her, boy," he repeated tentatively.

Sandor shot him his darkest stare and stepped forward, fighting back tears. Despite his blurred vision, he managed to hide the girl's nakedness with what remained of her skirts and tried to scoop her up in his arms. Her lifeless body was difficult to move: he already knew it and wasn't surprised to fail at first.

"Fuck, what are you doing?" Symon asked while Sandor carried the girl toward the threshold.

He didn't speak like the master-at-arms who bellowed his orders in the yard of Casterly Rock and frightened the pages; his begging tone struck Sandor and made him realize the seasoned man considered him as an equal at that instant, no matter what would happen later. The boy didn't reply; Symon nonetheless stepped aside so that Sandor could go back to the first room. The foot soldier who had tried to run away gaped at the sight of Sandor holding the dead girl in his arms and carefully laying her down on a bed. He brushed the blond hair from her face and felt the still warm flesh of her cheeks. The realization that she had died shortly before brought back the guilt. _I could have done something for her. She could have survived._ He took a sheet the plunderers had tossed on the floor, covered the girl with it and turned to the foot soldiers.

"Where's the goldsmith?"

"He- he's dead," the shortish man stammered.

"I know. Where is he?"

"Downstairs, in the workshop. Tom left him in a corner."

_So that's why I didn't notice him at first._ Sandor grabbed a blanket and ran down the stairs without ever looking at the weasel-face. As the foot soldier had told him, the goldsmith had been stabbed to death, then dragged in a corner of the room. He simply put the blanket on his body, while Symon went down the stairs with his two prisoners. Wordlessly, Sandor put on his boots and opened the door, then shoved the foot soldiers outside; the fat one, hardly awake, stumbled and nearly fell. In the small square, the dead mother and her child were still lying on the cobblestones, near the smoking ruins of the stables.

"You've done that before," Symon whispered.

It was more a statement than a question. Sandor turned slightly to look at him straight in the eyes, but the answers he could think of seemed whether unnecessary or painful. Instead of trying to explain something Symon well understood, he stopped near the mother, scooped her up and carried her inside the tavern. Although the smoke made him cringe, he put her carefully on a long and wide table where she could lie with her baby, then he looked around him.

The foot soldiers had visited this place, as well; the broken jugs and knocked down stools revealed they had spent some time there before noticing the goldsmith's workshop across the square. He went back to the baby, while Symon and the foot soldiers still watched him, the old master-at-arms with a kind of sad resignation in his eyes, whereas the plunderers seemed dumbfounded.

"Seven save us, who is he?" one of the foot soldiers asked, when he walked again in the tavern, the dead child in his arms.

He lay the baby in swaddling clothes down, next to his mother, and deplore the lack of blanket to protect them. _But at least, they're inside. Somebody will find them and bury them properly._ He left the tavern, now finding difficult to hold the foot soldiers' stare. As they walked away in the mid-afternoon sun, they heard a creaking noise coming from the second floor of the house neighboring the goldsmith's workshop; someone who had been observing them for a while had just closed the shutter. The idea that some inhabitants could have seen him carrying the dead woman and her child embarrassed him, even though he couldn't explain why. He sped up.

The shortish man who panted behind him cleared his throat.

"Someone else will come, you know. Aye, boy, someone else will come and take their gold. You think the townsfolk are innocent people? They'll just come in and steal their belongings!"

Sandor briskly turned around, ready to fight, but Symon had already seized the man and pinned him against a wall. The foot soldier helplessly opened his mouth as the master-at-arms squeezed his throat.

"Watch your tongue, little shit!" he threatened him. "Lord Tywin told us to find you but he didn't say how many plunderers he wanted back. Right now, I'm the only one who stands between you and the squire's blade."

He let go with him and gave Sandor a knowing look before leading the boy and their prisoners through the narrow and filthy streets of King's Landing. On their way to the Red Keep, there would be deserted places where one could believe the population had run away and streets covered with corpses, Sandor knew that. He would see dead Gold Cloaks and slaughtered inhabitants, people who had been killed because they wanted to defend their family or their valuables against the Lannister host.

What he had done for the goldsmith's daughter or the woman who owned the tavern didn't change anything to the cruelty of the Sack and he doubted he could ever forget the screech he had heard earlier nor the dreadful vision of the dead girl. All these memories would join the ones he kept in a corner of his mind and vainly tried to erase. Like the burns on his face, what he had been through made him a different person. The memories would come back sooner or later, on a battlefield or in a town like this one; he could not fight them but perhaps could he live with them and not let them destroy him, until someday, he found a way to heal his invisible wounds.

* * *

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was crowded with knights reeking of sweat and blood, some still bearing their heavy plate or mail, while the others had hastily donned a tunic or a cloak with their house's colors and sigil. Somehow, the musky smell made the ceremony less solemn than expected.

The Stark and Baratheon host had come in the Red Keep with dozens of banners their squires clung to. As the new king was sitting on the Iron Throne – the ugliest and strangest thing Sandor had ever seen – his troops stood at his right side and the Lannister host was on his left, Tywin and Gerion in front of them all, at the foot of the stairs that led to the throne. To his great surprise, Robert Baratheon matched the idea of kingly demeanor he had when he was a boy: tall, broad-shouldered, with a solid appearance. _Except that he's not a Targaryen._

Lords talked and discoursed about the victory for such a long time Sandor finally let his mind wander – he felt tired, and more than anything, tired of their false promises. _The victory? What victory? Is it a victory to kill unarmed civilians and outnumbered soldiers who thought we were coming to help them?_ A few yards further he could see Tywin's head with a bald spot hardly hidden by some golden curls; the Lord of Casterly Rock bided his time, his back very straight, while Aerys' former counselors bent the knee before the new king.

All of a sudden, Tywin took a step forward and the room went silent. He congratulated King Robert for his victory, wished him a long and peaceful reign and finally announced he had a gift, a token of fealty to prove House Lannister's support to the Crown. As Tywin turned around, solemnly looking at the back of the Great Hall, the heavy doors creaked open. Everybody looked behind to see what was that proof of Tywin's new allegiance; from where he was and despite the uncommon dimensions of the Great Hall, Sandor recognized instantly the hulking figure who carried something in a red cloak, and his heart skipped a beat. _Gregor. Tywin's orders._

Behind his brother, whose obscene smile disturbed some members of the Stark host, Ser Amory Lorch walked proudly, a similar burden wrapped in crimson fabric. It couldn't be the Mad King – Sandor knew Ser Jaime Lannister had stabbed Aerys, though he didn't see his body – so the boy frowned, trying to figure out who it was. In Gregor's huge paws, Tywin's gift to Robert seemed so small, he thought it could be someone's head, the Hand of the King's, for example. Yet he didn't see the point: the last Hand of King Aerys was an obscure alchemist whose name he always forgot. _Tywin wouldn't have sent Gregor and Amory Lorch for him. So who is it and why are there two cloaks?_

His brother's long strides allowed him to cross the distance between the doors and the platform in a few instants, even if Gregor slowed the pace to enjoy his moment of glory. He stopped in front of Tywin, looked up at the dais and knelt to put the crimson cloak on the first step. Right after, Amory Lorch did the same with his own cloak.

“Rhaegar's son,” Tywin announced. “And Rhaegar's daughter.”

The Baratheon and Stark host shivered. On the dais, Robert stood up and glanced at two cloaks, tilting his head as Tywin unfolded the cloak. Sandor's stomach churned when he noticed the new king's relief at the sight of the two dead children, but he was not the only one who felt sick; a tall Northerner lord clad in black and grey left the first row, careless of his friends' reproachful gaze, and he stormed out of the Great Hall.

“This is Lord Stark,” someone said behind Sandor. “What the fuck is he doing?”

After a moment of indecisiveness, another lord, small and almost frail in his brown and green clothes, followed him, under the Lannister Bannermen's mocking looks. Before the scrawny lord had reached the doors, Robert thanked Tywin for his gift and Sandor's liege lord bowed deeply in front of the new king.

It was exactly like in his daydream, in Casterly Rock, when Tywin talked about Robert's Rebellion. The Great Hall was even more impressive than he thought with all the Bannermen crowded inside. Tywin was standing at the foot of the platform, the king warmly thanking him for his help, though it was not the king Sandor had imagined, nor the help he thought the Lannister host would provide the Crown. The little children should have been next to the king, in their mother's arms, instead of lying on the flight of narrow stairs leading to the Iron Throne, wrapped in red cloaks with the Lannister sigil.

The acid taste of bile hit the back of his throat and when he felt like he couldn't stay any longer, he fought his way through the Lannister men and left the Great Hall, then he ran until he found a large balcony. From the corridor, the place seemed deserted but when he crossed the threshold he almost ran into Lord Stark and the frail lord who had followed him, before ending up at the opposite corner of the balcony where they stood; bending over the guard rail, Sandor vomited his last meal, then wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the two men a sheepish glance.

Then, in a heavy silence, he contemplated the garden below the balcony: the square flowerbeds, the ocher paths between neat hedges of box-tree, the gurgling marble fountains. All this scenery had been created so that the king could rest after hours spent inside the Red Keep attending ceremonies or ruling the realm, and under the soft, caressing sunbeams of the late afternoon, the gardens of the Red Keep reached their perfection. Yet, the acrid smell of smoke coming from the ashes of the city found its way to his nostrils.

Now that he was standing up, Sandor observed the Northerners: Eddard Stark, with his tall figure in boiled leather armor and his austere face, looked like a man accustomed to the open air, not like a lord spending his days inside his castle. His companion, a man of lighter build, bore the sigil of House Reed: a black lizard-lion on grey-green. _A Crannogman. People say they hide in the swamps like cowards, live in houses made of reed and eat frogs._ Despite the Crannogmen's reputation of frog-eaters and their primitive lifestyle, Gerion had talked to this man a few moments before the ceremony in the Great Hall.

Sandor heard the men exchanging a few words, Lord Stark glancing at him suspiciously. In the end, Lord Reed shrugged and walked toward him.

"Are you alright, boy?" the Crannogman asked, with a surprising hint of concern.

He had deep green eyes. Like the Lannisters, he thought. Yet these green eyes didn't glisten with arrogance like Cersei's, nor coldness and detachment like Tywin's. The Crannogman seemed to read his mind and Sandor found the experience quite disturbing.

"I-I'm fine. Thank you my lord. I'm sorry for..."

Ashamed, he stopped short of going into humiliating details. His high-pitched voice surprised Lord Stark who turned slightly and frowned. Ill-at-ease, Sandor shifted from foot to foot, until the Northerner lord finally caught a glimpse at the left side of his face and gasped. _I'm a bloody fool; I should have stayed still._ He briskly spun on his heels, only showing them the unburnt side of his face.

"It's a long way from the Westerlands," the Crannogman went on.

"Aye, my lord."

"It was your first battle, right?"

"It was not a battle. It was a sack," Sandor spat. His tone was full of contempt and he didn't try to hide it from them.

Sandor looked behind him, wondering if he should stay here with his liege lord's new allies or if he should go back to the Great Hall: his shoulders finally sank and he didn't move. A gust of wind made Lord Reed shiver, and brought again the smell of smoke. When Sandor lifted his eyes, he discerned small things twirling in the air, like greyish snowflakes fluttering about for a while before landing on the balcony; he extended his hand to touch them. A puzzled look on his face, he scrutinized the snowflakes that would not melt despite the warmth of his palm.

"Ashes," Lord Stark explained abruptly.

Sandor and the Crannogman turned to him at the same time, more surprised by his sudden attempt to break the silence than by his answer. The three of them stood there, watching the evening wind bringing more and more ashes on the dead king's perfect garden, dusting the bright flowers and the box-tree with a greyish substance, until Sandor finally left them wordlessly.

The two men would talk about him after his silent departure; they would discuss his burns, his bad manners, his allegiance to Tywin. Maybe they would realize the man who brought Aegon's tiny body to the new king was his brother. As he crossed the threshold and got back inside, he clenched his teeth. On his right, he saw the open door moving; Sandor froze when he understood there somebody listened to their conversation. _Why would someone spy on them? The Crannogman is neither powerful nor dangerous, but Lord Stark..._

In two long strides, he was near the wooden panel; he seized the door handle and the door slowly moved on its hinges. Behind, he saw a boy who wasn't older than him, probably a servant working in the castle, whose begging eyes implored him not to talk. With his pale skin and close-cropped hair, the boy looked like a prisoner. For a while, Sandor hesitated, wondering if he should bring the spy to Lord Stark or pity the boy who listened to the Red Keep's guests for a few copper coins.

Under Sandor's angry gaze, the boy recoiled, sheltering his body in the corner between the wall and the door, his hands raised in a self-protective gesture. The memories of the day flooded in Sandor's mind: the host crossing the gates, his first real fight, the first man he had killed, the dead women in the small square... He had had his share of violence for the present day and Tywin probably waited for him in the Maidenvault, where the Lannister Bannermen would spend the night. Glaring at the servant, he released the door handle and walked away.


	10. Bedded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You killed your first man before bedding a girl," Symon whispered with an inebriated voice. "It should be the other way around... But at least, we can find a solution."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is pretty clear, but just in case you didn't pay attention... Warning for underage activities. If you feel uncomfortable with it, you should probably not read this chapter. Now you're warned.  
> As this chapter makes me rather nervous, any feedback will be appreciated!

"You must be over the moon," Serrett told him with a smirk.

Sandor had just left the balcony where he had met Lord Eddard Stark and the pipsqueak from the Neck who was his friend, when he met Serrett on his way to the Maidenvault. The Red Keep still looked like a maze for Sandor, but he knew that Tywin would be in the Maidenvault and would need his service. Serrett was leaving the long slate roofed keep as he called him out. Sandor stopped mid-stride and gazed intently at Gerion's squire, wondering about his remark.

"Why would I be over the moon?" he asked Serrett.

The squire snorted, but as Sandor took one step forward, he noticed the boy's red eyes.

"'Cause Banefort is dead," he spat. "That makes you Tywin's one and only squire. It seems that you have the luck of the devil, Clegane."

He frowned in disbelief, ignoring what Serrett implied.

"But how?" he said.

_Banefort will be knighted soon, probably by King Robert. He can't die now._

"Lord Tywin sent House Banefort and loads of crossbowmen to the harbor," Serrett replied, sniffing. "Banefort was among them. Some sailors resisted and Banefort got killed during an ambush."

Serrett went silent, observing Sandor's reaction. After staring at his reddened face for a few heartbeats, Sandor averted his eyes, bobbing his head. _So that's why I didn't see him in the Great Hall, when Gregor and Amory Lorch presented the corpses of the Targaryen children to Robert..._ He peered at Serrett who seemed furious.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Banefort was a good squire."

"As if I didn't see you fighting with him!" Serrett hissed. "You hated Banefort, you double-faced bastard, so don't tell me you're sorry. Now you'll squire for Tywin. You'll have everything you wanted since the day you arrived in Casterly Rock. Oh, it didn't take you a long time to achieve your ends... Only a few months, fighting with other squires, licking Tywin's ass..."

Sandor stayed perfectly still, slightly shaking, but keeping a grip on himself; after what he had seen in the streets of King's Landing during the day, he felt nauseous enough not to hit the first prick who provoked him. His lack of reaction made Serrett frown; he finally understood that Gerion's squire looked for an excuse to brawl, and he expected Sandor to start the fight. _As a way to conjure his sorrow for losing a friend?_ After all, he had seen stranger things.

"You know what?" he told Serrett, moving past him. "I don't care about your opinion on me. I don't care about squiring for Tywin or for someone else. You're an asshole if you think I rejoice in Banefort's death and-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Serrett jumped on his back and tried to strangle him; the boy kicked and squeezed Sandor's throat with all his might. Even taken unaware, even in the aftermath of the sack – or perhaps because he had witnessed so many horrors that day – Sandor didn't feel like striking back: he seized Serrett's wrists and forced him to release his hold, then shrugged the squire like a useless cloak. Serrett landed on his hands and knees, cursing and choking back tears. The blond boy looked so miserable at that instant, Sandor couldn't help staring at him before walking away.

* * *

Banefort's death had made him Tywin's squire overnight and Sandor was very uncomfortable with the ensuing responsabilities, especially when Tywin and Gerion took him to the Tower of the Hand, for an encounter which took the appearances of the Small Council. Ill-at-ease, he stood by the door with the other squires – Robert's squire and Lord Arryn's – who stared at him in astonishment, while the most powerful men of the realm sat down around a long table.

_A squire shouldn't be burnt or as young as I am. Tywin's squire should be a perfect youth with a stately bearing and a flawless skin..._ The two boys standing next to him most likely belong to noble families serving House Arryn or House Baratheon for centuries, while his grand-father was a kennelmaster brought to nobility by Lord Tytos. Somehow, he was living that day the same troubling experience his grandparent had faced when he became a landed knight; a half-smile pulled the corners of his lips when he realized it. Yet, in the little world of squires, people measured the one's fame by looking at the seat of his house, and by scrutinizing the moss covering the walls. The bigger and older was your keep, the more noble was your family: Clegane's Keep was small and looked way too new, by their standards. _Tywin could have any squire in the Lannister host, still he chose me. Maybe he finds a secret pleasure in taking with him someone who doesn't fit the part._

Apart from Tywin, Gerion, the king and Lord Stark, there was Lord Arryn – the new Hand of the King – he had already seen in the Great Hall. Two strange men he didn't notice so far shared the end of the table with Lord Stark: one was bald and plump, clad in a green silken tunic and the other one was an old maester Sandor identified thanks to the long chain he wore over his robe. Tywin had said something about a Maester Pycelle who had convinced Aerys to open the gates for the Lannister host; Sandor therefore understood the bearded man with deep-set eyes was the late king's advisor and the one who had set the cat among the pigeons.

It was even easier to recognize the plump man wearing a fancy green tunic: before they arrived in King's Landing, many bawdy jokes men told at night were about a eunuch named Varys and his missing manhood. Their tasteless humor made Sandor wonder rather than laugh. _Why in Seven Hells would someone cut off a man's balls or member?_ It didn't make any sense; yet the bald man peering at Tywin could only be Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers and his presence in the Tower of the Hand, along with the Grand Maester Pycelle's proved a strange continuity with the Targaryen era existed.

The conversation began and Lord Stark soon demanded that Amory Lorch and Gregor be brought to justice for the murders of the last Targaryens during the Sack.

"Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane are mine," Tywin answered softly after listening to the Northerner's question. "Mine to chastise or to reward. In this case, I'll reward them."

He looked so threatening at this moment, despite his exquisite manners and clear-cut tone, that Pycelle shivered. _Reward them?_ The acid taste of bile hit the back of Sandor's throat.

"They got rid of three persons who stood in King Robert's way to the Iron Throne," Tywin added. "Your address makes me question your loyalty towards King Robert, Lord Eddard."

A seething rage took hold of Lord Stark; as he was sitting at the end of the table, Sandor saw him glaring at Tywin.

"I'll lend enough gold to rebuild most of the places ruined or destroyed by battles. It's a good deal for the Crown," Tywin added, glancing sideways at the king. "No need to say that I would reconsider my offer should my Bannermen be brought to justice."

"Why are we talking about this, in the first place?" King Robert asked.

"Will you agree with me, Lord Tywin, if I say you brought the children's dead bodies to our new King as a token of fealty?" Lord Stark went on.

Tywin nodded slowly. At the thought of what his brother had done, Sandor couldn't help shifting from foot to foot.

"What kind of loyal liegeman were you when you sacked and burned the capital? When your men killed or raped the townsfolk?"

"Enough!" the king bellowed.

When Gerion opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, Tywin raised his hand in a commanding gesture that shushed his brother; Gerion sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Beside Lord Stark, Varys kept staring at Tywin, fascinated by his demeanor. The Lord of Casterly Rock let out a sigh expressing his annoyance in front of an assembly so unworthy of his cleverness, rooted his elbows to the table and looked at them over steepled fingers.

"I won this city for King Robert and I prevented the mad king from burning it. Do you think he would have set fire to a bunch of inns like some of my men did? No. If I had not interfered, you would have seen green hues in the sky, green flames devouring houses and people alike. Your host would have waited for one night and one day, until the ashes went cold, before crossing the gates. Nothing of this" – his hand showed the room a sweeping gesture – "would remain. I did save the city."

Undeterred, he scowled at Eddard.

"And what would it look like if the men who got rid of the remaining Targaryens and secured the dynasty your friend King Robert is about to start were beheaded? Smallfolk would not understand such a decision. However, there's something I understand quite well, Lord Eddard. You don't care for the late Dornish princess, nor for her children, nor for my Bannermen. With your accusation, you only mean to harm my son, Ser Jaime."

Lord Stark immediately pushed himself from his seat, his brusque reaction startling the Grand Maester who cringed on his seat.

"I will not have you talking to me this way, Lord Tywin. Instead of accusing me, you should consider your own actions. You betrayed the Mad King soon after promising him your help and you butchered the largest city of the realm. As for your son, he discarded the vows he had taken and stabbed the king he once swore to protect. I'm sad to observe that the such a conduct could go unpunished, after a war that meant to free us from the unfairness of the Targaryen era."

"Wars aren't won with promises and pledges, Lord Eddard," Tywin lectured him.

"A pledge I made months ago is precisely the reason why I am here today," the Northerner retorted.

"I pity you, then."

_Tywin thinks Lord Stark has an idiotic and nonsensical attitude._ Sandor somehow understood his liege lord's opinion, now that he had seen what war was like. _Promises and vows don't matter once in the battlefield._ The king and his Hand remained silent, thus showing they wouldn't take their friend's side.

"Anyway," Tywin added, "I won't let you punish my Bannermen – let alone my son – but... I wanted to chastise some of my men who overstepped my orders. If King Robert wants to make an example of these men, I'm ready to hand them over. Tell me Gerion, what happened with the plunderers we caught near the Great Sept?"

"Master Symon and your squire took care of them," Gerion replied. "We should ask Clegane."

Turning around, he motioned Sandor to come, while Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys suppressed a shiver. _Because of my burns or because of my name which reminds them of my brother's crimes?_ He took a few steps forward and stopped in front of his master.

"Where are they, Clegane?" Tywin asked.

"Master Symon and I locked them in the dungeons."

"Wherever you go, Clegane, you can't help visiting dungeons," Gerion commented.

Despite the circumstances, he didn't lose his deadpan sense of humor. Impressed by all the men observing him, Sandor remained very serious, glancing from time to time to Pycelle who adjusted his lorgnon on his nose, probably to have a good look at his burned cheek.

"Go fetch Symon and bring back these men," Tywin ordered. "Lord Eddard wishes to make an example and I want to oblige him."

Sandor nodded, turned around and walked to the door. As he closed the heavy door, he heard the Grand Maester's quavering voice.

"May I ask if I could examine this boy's extraordinary burns?"

Sandor froze, waiting for Tywin's answer. _Please, no. Just tell him I'm fine._ After a never-ending silence, his liege lord's tone sounded dry and despising.

"The boy is mine, and he'll go to the maester only if I tell him to do so."

Right after, Sandor heard chairs creaking against the tiles and understood the meeting was over; he hurried to the Maidenvault, eager not to meet Pycelle again.

* * *

_I'll be responsible for their death._ The prospect made his head spin, as he followed Master Symon in the spiral staircase leading to the Red Keep dungeons.

After the meeting between the new king, his counselors and the Lannister siblings, Tywin had ordered him to bring back the plunderers they had caught the day before so he could show them to Robert. _Robert Baratheon the first of his name... it sounds odd. He'll be the first king in three hundred years not to bear a Valyrian name..._ The thought disturbed him, but not enough to make him forget about the two poor devils who awaited their fate in the dungeons underneath the Red Keep.

Because of the stairs' uneven surface and the feeble light, Master Symon carried a burning torch. The master-at-arms had first offered it to Sandor, before thinking better of it and silently taking the piece of wood soaked in pitch. The boy was grateful for Symon's attention and kept a reasonable distance between him and the flames. From time to time, they heard droplets falling from the ceiling; receiving some water on the top of his head, Symon cursed and wiped it immediately. As they progressed deeper under the luxurious rooms of the Red Keep, the drop in temperature surprised Sandor who soon shivered in his crimson tunic.

"So the man I talked to said there were four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep," Master Symon rasped, breaking the heavy silence.

"I don't understand," Sandor replied. "When we locked the foot soldiers, we only saw one floor, and most of the cells were empty. Why are there four levels?"

Symon turned around and in the flickering light of the torch, his ugly face took a devilish appearance.

"Seems that we only saw the first floor, where common criminals are confined. Each level has his purpose. The high-born captives stay in the second level, where there are no windows and only torches burning to give them some light; the third level contains black cells, with no windows nor torches. It must be terrible to spend days and nights in the black cells..."

"What about the fourth level?" Sandor asked as the master-at-arms resumed his descent into the bowels of the Red Keep.

"The fourth floor is used to torture prisoners and neither you nor I want to see this."

Sandor repressed a shiver.

"Are they going to torture them, Master Symon?"

"I don't think so, boy. Torture is meant to make people confess their crimes. King Robert doesn't care about what these men did, he just wants to make an example... What?"

He cast a glance at Sandor and noticed his frowning; as usual, he misunderstood the boy's expression.

"Nothing," Sandor answered. "Some men don't use torture to make people confess their crimes. Especially when there are no crimes to confess."

The images he tried to forget had come back without warning, as disturbing as ever. _Violence is just Gregor's way to entertain himself, when he's bored. Or pissed off, or whatever._ Symon looked at him intently, his self-confidence vanishing in the dark staircase and his jaw dropping with fright when he realized what Sandor meant and who he was talking about.

"We won't visit the fourth floor," Symon told him firmly. "And the plunderers won't be tortured, I give you my word."

"You don't need to promise me anything," he retorted, barely concealing his anger. "Promises are for fools."

Symon put his torch in the nearest sconce and stared at him. The master-at-arms had the same look Sandor had seen in his eyes the day before, as he carried the dead girl to her bed: puzzled, sad and somehow tender. The kind of look that made him feel ashamed; he suddenly wanted to eat his words.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly, eyes downcast. "It's just that they're going to die because of me."

Symon seized his shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.

"They're thieves and probably murderers. You caught them. I should be the one who feels guilty because I didn't lift the little finger to save this poor girl."

While Symon confessed his weakness, he felt more pressure on his shoulders, as if the man leaned on Sandor.

"Why did no one try to help her? We could have done something before leaving the square."

"We were obeying orders, boy. That's what soldiers do. But I don't want you to feel guilty; they deserve their chastisement. And never forget that Lord Tywin sent you to bring them back yesterday, then decided they'll end up on the gallows, to please King Robert."

The master-at-arms sighed heavily before letting go with Sandor. _We're pawns,_ he thought bitterly. _I thought I was doing something good when I chased them in the streets of King's Landing, but I was just a pawn, like the plunderers, in the little game Tywin plays with the new king and Lord Stark._ He felt like a cog in a wheel, trapped in a monstrous clockwork. If he didn't want to obey orders, all he could do was run away. The images of his stay in the woods before he arrived in Casterly Rock flooded in. As Symon took the torch and grabbed the keys hanging from his belt, Sandor shook his head. _Not now. Someday, when I'm ready._

* * *

"You killed your first man before bedding a girl," Symon said with an inebriated voice. "It should be the other way around. The Gods... the Gods have forsaken us. Trust me, Clegane, this world is crazy."

Wine induced tirades didn't really surprise Sandor now that every member of the Lannister host was more or less drunk. Around him and the master-at-arms, the lords, knights and foot soldiers were drinking all kinds of alcohol one could find in King's Landing, from the most expensive wines imported from Essos to the piss-poor ale and cheap strong-wine the commoners loved; the only difference was that the lords and knights drank their Volantene wine in the Queen's Ballroom, while Tywin had bidden the archers and lancers to stay outside, in the Red Keep's inner yard. Sandor and Symon stood at the threshold of the Queen's Ballroom, between the two worlds observing each other without mixing.

The boy was accustomed to the nobility's despise toward him and to the smallfolk's distrust; he simply didn't belong to either group. However, he had never realized Symon felt the same: in fact, he ignored Symon's past.

"Can we stay here with the commoners or should we go inside?" he asked the pot-bellied man.

"As long as I can drink, I don't give a fuck about it, boy."

He took another long gulp and chuckled, almost choking on his wine.

"Are you a knight?" Sandor asked again.

"I'm the youngest son of House Vikary. People said a Reyne bastard founded our house. A Reyne bastard! That makes me less than a shit in Lord Tywin's eyes, since he killed all the members of House Reyne and destroyed Castamere. My father had the strangest idea; the year Tywin came back from Castamere, after he had crushed the rebellion, he sent me to Casterly Rock. I wasn't welcome there, and I was neither good-mannered nor smart. But... I was good with a sword and that's why his father, Lord Tytos, let me stay as a master-at-arms. I knew I could never be a knight, so now I tyrannize the knights-to-be!"

He burst out laughing and poured more wine in Sandor's goblet. Remembering his terrible headache after his first night of bender, the boy resisted – feebly – then took a sip. _So Master Symon is not as old as I thought. He's not older than Tywin._ Stroking the dark stubble covering the lower half of his round face, Symon looked at him with a bawdy smile.

"Aye, Clegane, it's a shame you killed your first man before bedding a girl. But at least, we can find a solution."

Thanks to the darkness, the master-at-arms couldn't see how red and burning were the boy's cheeks. Sandor swallowed hard, then cleared his throat.

"Girls don't like me. I scare them," he explained.

The master-at-arms patted his shoulder and shook his head.

"You think girls like this?" he asked Sandor, slapping his paunch. "Do you think they want to kiss my big nose? No they don't! That's why we're going to the brothel tonight."

"You said you would take me to the armor-smith," Sandor said, a little too promptly.

He didn't mean it, but he sounded a bit disappointed. Symon let out a raucous laughter, called the nearest group of archers and pointed at Sandor, as if he wanted the men to back him up. The archers ignored what the master-at-arms found so hilarious, yet they burst out laughing all the same. Symon finally calmed down.

"So you're the kind of boy who prefers buying swords than fucking girls? Come on, Clegane, we can do both!"

A look of feigned dignity on his rubicund face, Symon raised his right hand.

"I, Symon of House Vikary, promise to take you to the armor-smith tomorrow, on the condition that you first come with me to a pleasure house. Tonight. You won't keep your sword forever in its sheath, boy."

As Sandor's unease became palpable, the master-at-arms stopped his banter and went serious.

"Listen to me, boy. You don't have to be ashamed. Whores exist for fat men, old men..."

_For scarred men?_

"I often go whoring, because no woman wants me for free," Symon added. "You can be whoever you want in a brothel. You can pretend you're a handsome youth like Ser Jaime Lannister, if you want. Whores exist for ugly men like me. Or..."

He hesitated, then glanced at Sandor's ruined cheek.

"Or boys like you. I suppose all boys go to the brothel, first. What kind of girl do you like?"

His question puzzled Sandor. He didn't even know men had usually a kind of girl they preferred.

* * *

Symon insisted on freshening up before going to the brothel, so he went back to his room, fetched a basin of water and washed hastily. Then he donned his best tunic and joined Symon in the corridor.

On their way to the Street of Silk, a long street housing most of the capital's brothels, the master-at-arms kept talking and ranting under the influence of alcohol and Sandor settled for nodding and not contradicting him. However, the prospect of sleeping with a girl scared him so much he didn't listen to Symon.

He had seen animals in Clegane's Keep, he had heard men talking about women and boasting themselves in the Westerlands and on the road to King's Landing, yet the possibility that he could someday touch a girl was disturbing and remained an abstract idea. _Girls don't like me. I scare them_ , he repeated to himself. _They only see the scars._

Over the past moons, his body had changed and, in Casterly Rock, Tybolt's curious look whenever Sandor got undressed had confirmed he was not a child anymore; only his high-pitched voice, this embarrassing anomaly, betrayed his age. He was taller than the oldest squires and still growing up; while the other boys of two-and-ten were generally lanky, his muscles allowed him to carry heavy shields and weapons to help Symon. The master-at-arms had even told him he could someday wield a greatsword with one hand and knowing that he would be able to do such an uncommon thing was a source of pride.

_But it's not about height and muscles, tonight._ He had had disturbing dreams lately, and had woken up in the morning, pouring sweat and feeling odd. Sandor had a vague idea of what was going on, but as he always did when something confused him, he had decided to shrug it off. Yet he couldn't pretend this night was ordinary. Declining Symon's offer now would turn his only true ally away and Sandor rejected that thought, slightly shaking his head. _Next turn of the moon, I'll be three-and-ten, he remembered. I'm a grown man, now._

Symon went silent and suddenly stopped in front of a thick wooden door, before tapping the door knocker. Sandor's heart skipped a beat. _It's too late, now, I can't avoid it._ He realized he felt more afraid than when they had crossed the Lion Gate and he called himself an idiot. _Maybe I'm not a craven but I'm a bloody fool. I fear them more than our enemies. Them, the whores_ , he said in petto, trying to get used to the word.

All of a sudden, as the door creaked open, he saw them. Standing in the entrance hall and half hidden by a red velvet curtain, behind the old woman who owned the place, they were three very common girls, probably born in Flee Bottom or in some village near the capital, chatting and glancing at the visitors. The owner was as short as skinny; under a shock of grey hair, Sandor noticed the deep wrinkles furrowing her pale skin; she looked up at them and grinned when Symon touched the leather purse hanging from his belt.

"Please come in, Sers. Welcome in Naya's pleasure house!"

Her soft, mild voice sounded a bit soapy.

"We're no Sers," Symon protested.

The old woman tilted her head and smiled playfully.

"Oh, what are you, then? Lords? Two men like you can only be knights or lords. Naya can tell."

Symon turned to Sandor and gave him a knowing look. _Is it what he meant when he said we can be whoever we want in a brothel?_ Naya observed them as they stepped in the entrance hall and she closed the door made of dark oak.

"Hmm, let me guess," she said softly, "an experienced warrior like you needs to forget about the terrible battles he fought with a curvaceous woman. A blond, maybe?"

The master-at-arms hesitated for a heartbeat then nodded. Naya gestured to one of the whores and she stepped forward, puckering up in the flickering light of the candles; she was a pale fleshy blond with long braided hair. Like the two other girls, she wore a see-through gown; hers was blue and enhanced the color of her eyes. Symon seemed pleased enough not to bargain the price Naya announced.

"And what about your friend?" Naya asked, as Sandor's good cheek went red. "A young girl. Not too young, though, he needs to be reassured."

_How does she know?_ He sucked in deeply when the old woman brushed aside the dark strands he had flatten on the left side of his face. Despite his humiliation, he tried to stay still and clenched his jaw.

"Hmm-hmm, go fetch Emerald," Naya ordered and he clearly saw the two remaining girls heaving a sigh of relief before vanishing behind the velvet curtain and hurrying in the corridor. _The same old story._ He glared at the old woman who cautiously stepped back and turned to Symon.

"I'm afraid there will be an additional cost," she told the master-at-arms.

"An additional cost?" Symon boomed. "What for?"

Naya sighed and tilted her head, ill-at-ease.

"Listen, I don't want to scare my girls. And I think this" - she pointed at Sandor's burnt cheek - "allows me to ask for a compensation."

As the old woman and the blond whore glanced at him – Naya wondering how much she could ask Symon and the blond with a sparkle of concern in her washed-out blue eyes – he was shaking like a leaf. A heavy silence fell on the entrance hall until a brown-haired girl with a surly face emerged from the corridor.

"This is Emerald," Naya announced, smiling and partially recovering her spirit.

As soon as she saw Sandor, Emerald froze; she was a bit taller than Naya and her yellow see-through gown hardly concealed her slim body. Without her sullen expression and her constant frown, she could have been beautiful. She looked hard at Sandor and tugged Naya's sleeve, leading the old woman in the corridor to protest. In the meanwhile, the blond woman grinned and gave Symon her best bedroom eyes.

Although Naya and the young whore whispered, Sandor caught snatches of their conversation and easily imagined what he couldn't hear.

"I said no..." the girl said. "I'm tired...always fucking babes..."

"No way... I already told them... more coin, Emerald!"

"His scars... Disgusting..."

"You don't need to look at him, girl," Naya said, adamant, and they both went back to the entrance hall.

Behind the old woman, the girl looked furious and she glared at the other girls who repressed a chuckle. Naya planted herself in front of Symon and extended the palm of her wrinkled hand; Symon took his purse and gave her the price she demanded: five stags. Finally, the old woman gave a little flourish with both her hands and Symon left Sandor to follow the blond woman, who wriggled her hips and rewarded the master-at-arms with a languid gaze. The boy's heart skipped a beat; in front of him, Emerald folded her arms, and observed Sandor suspiciously.

"Come on, Emerald!" Naya said, grabbing the girl's wrist with a hint of impatience.

Someone had just knocked at the heavy door and the old woman didn't want to lose a customer. Emerald frowned again and exited the entrance hall without ever looking at him. The corridor, half concealed by the red curtain, was long and dimly lit. On either side, Sandor saw wooden doors. Some were closed and probably busy; a few ones were open and revealed the same furniture: a large bed, one console table supporting a pitcher and a basin. On the wooden floor, there was a chamber pot.

Emerald stopped in front of one of the open doors, at the end of the corridor and sighed deeply before entering the tiny room. As he stood on the threshold, she turned around and gave him a condescending look.

"Are you coming, boy? Maybe you want me to call your mama?"

She mocked his young age, but she wasn't much older. _Probably no more than eight-and ten_ , he decided as his mouth went dry. _And I'm a grown man. Or at least, I'll be a grown man when I'll leave this room._ He stepped in and closed the door.

"My name is Sandor," he said tentatively, assuming that telling her his name was a good start.

She had already taken off her slippers and she placed her pretty shoes under the bed; he could only see her profile.

"Good for you," she answered, shrugging.

"Is Emerald your real name?" he asked, coming closer.

She gave out a bitter laugh, but still refused to look at him.

"My real name?" she repeated, chuckling, and she undid her belt.

Remembering something he had heard in a song about a valiant knight and his lady love, he extended a shaky hand to take her in his arms; she stepped back instantly.

"Keep your paws off!" she hissed. "Don't even think about kissing me. I don't give no kisses. And Naya said I didn't have to look at you."

_How are we supposed to do this if I can't touch her nor look at her? And why is she so nasty?_ He didn't know if she reacted this way because she found him physically impressive and therefore wanted to show she was a tough one or simply because he disgusted her. This time, Emerald turned her back to him and removed her gown hastily. Sandor gaped: he had never seen a naked woman before, and her thin, supple body fascinated him.

Turning again to face the small mirror made of polished metal, she removed one by one the pins that held her hairstyle; as more pins landed on the console table with a jangling sound, her long brown hair covered her shoulders but revealed her small breasts. Symon would have said she was skinny, but Sandor loved her slim waist and slender hips. She must have felt his hot gaze on her, for she looked at him and briefly smiled.

"You look funny, boy. How old are you?"

"Five-and-ten," he lied.

"Like I said. Always fucking green boys. Remove your tunic."

He wanted to protest or to explain her why he was here but found nothing relevant to say. Emerald was already climbing on the bed; she stopped in the middle of the mattress, on all fours, and waited. Sandor took his tunic off, put it on the floor, like she had done with her gown, then removed his boots, but didn't move. He knew what she expected him to do, yet he felt petrified.

"What?" she asked, turning her head over her shoulder and glancing at him. "Naya said I didn't have to look at you."

"I don't know," he stuttered, "I never..."

Emerald sighed heavily, sat up and pinched the bridge of her small nose between her thumb and forefinger.

"Gods, you're a virgin! It's so unfair! This snooty Fraila always have the best customers and what do I have? Babes! Be honest, do I look like a wet-nurse?"

He looked at her slender hips and shook his head as she sat on the opposite side of the bed, her back to him again.

"No," Sandor replied. "You... you're pretty." _Or you could be pretty if you made an effort and stopped frowning._

Sandor's flattering remark forced a smile out of her; at least he noticed how her cheekbone became round and pink and guessed she was smiling.

"Sorry, boy, but I can't just answer 'same to you'," she whispered. "Lie down, then."

Without the butterflies he felt in his stomach, he would have shouted at her; instead of getting angry, he complied and slowly lay down on the bed. _She'll look at me, he thought. She didn't want to, but she'll do it all the same. And I will hold her in my arms._ As the girl was still sitting on the edge of the bed, combing her brown hair, the urge to touch her skin increased. He wanted to feel the smoothness of her creamy skin under his fingertips and he anticipated the moment when he could brush her waist or fondle her breasts.

Back in Clegane's Keep, when Ivy was still alive, he had helped her catch two chickens in the poultry yard, for supper. It had been more difficult than they imagined, but in the end, Ivy had planted herself in front of him, a broad grin on her lips, and pinched his good cheek. He remembered the joyful expression on her face, as she looked up at him – he was already taller than the servant. Sandor had touched her bare forearm, just for a second, and felt the soft skin under his callous palms. He had never thought of kissing her – because she was older than him, and because he didn't want to spoil their strange friendship – but since that day, he imagined every woman had a soft skin and craved to touch it.

Emerald climbed on the bed again and straddled him, but not the way he expected; once more, she had her back to him.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, leaning on his elbows and trying to sit up.

"Stay still. Naya said I didn't need to look at you," she repeated, like a capricious little girl.

Frustrated, he lay down and looked at her pale bottom. _Why is she so mean? Is it because the other men are cruel with her?_ Before he could find a convincing answer, her deft fingers were on his breeches, then inside his breeches. Sandor felt exposed and ashamed that she could look at him while all he could see of her were her back and her buttocks. He gasped when she touched his manhood and began to rock her hips against his.

"Mmh- mmh," she commented. "You're a damn green boy, but at least you're big. I suppose that counts for something."

His heart was pounding in his chest as she guided him until he slid inside her; he had never felt something like that before and couldn't tell if was pleasant or disgusting. He grabbed her hips instinctively and gave out a low grunt.

"No, no, no, wait," she ordered, swatting his hands away. "We'll do it my way. Stay still. Stay still or I swear I hurt you. You know I can."

His reluctance to let her go made her chuckle and she laughed for good when he slammed his hand on the mattress with frustration. Feeling this girl laughing on top of him was odd and incongruous, like a bad trick the gods played to remind him that his strength and skills didn't prevent him from humiliation nor helplessness. Somehow, it looked like a role reversal: shamelessly, she had scrutinized his manhood and now she commanded him like a customer in a brothel. _I shouldn't have been so submissive, he thought. I tried to be kind, I let her do as she pleased because I believed that she knew and she would teach me, but she didn't._

She rocked her hips at a slow pace, stopping from time to time, careless of what he wanted and moaning like her blood was up. _I'm her plaything. Symon took me to this place because he thought I would enjoy my time with a whore, but right now, I'm her plaything._

When her moaning became louder, he disobeyed and grasped her hips. A little cry escaped her mouth but she didn't protest and let him find his release.

The moment following his release disappeared in a sort of haziness; she collapsed on the bed and lay down beside him. They were both panting and Sandor tried to realize what had happened. He felt exhausted and more serene at the same time, yet he couldn't explain why. After a while, he became aware that Emerald still didn't look at him, but instead of rolling on one side to show him her back, she simply watched the whitewashed ceiling – just like he did.

"Congratulations, you're not a virgin anymore," she said, once she had caught her breath, with the same sarcastic tone than before. "But you could have waited. It could have been good for me, too."

Sandor felt so vexed over her attitude since she had seen him in the entrance hall he didn't care to please her anymore.

"No, I couldn't," he answered curtly.

She gave him a fleeting glance; from where she was, she could only see the unburnt side of his face and she seemed more comfortable with this sight. Her shameless eyes roamed over his chest and down to his abdomen; for a heartbeat, he thought she would touch him again and he glared at her. She recoiled instantly, combing her long hair, but locked eyes with him. _At last._

"The baby boy doesn't want me to touch him, now?" she teased him.

He shook his head. _She's just like me. She probably lost her parents and ended up here. Doesn't allow her to humiliate me, though._ They stared at each other, silently, like two young wild beasts fighting for their territory.

"Why did they give you that stupid name? Emerald?" he asked, forgetting all gallantry.

She shrugged, still observing his good cheek.

"You see, every girl here has her customer base. Fraila has the rich ones, Heeva – the blond your friend chose – always ends up with the old men who want to squeeze her tits, those who are into exotic women prefer the girls from the Summer Isles, Alysanne and Jayde have the passing trade and I have the green boys... I suppose Emerald is a perfect name for a whore who fucks green boys."

She seemed rather proud of her flash of wit. Sandor's lack of reaction puzzled her, though, and he saw her biting her lip. She wriggled on the mattress until she was flush against him and she put her hand on his chest, gently stroking the place above his heart. He didn't move, that time; he could reach out and touch her breast or her lower belly, but he decided not to give her any reason to believe he craved for her. All of a sudden, the bad-tempered whore who refused to look at him and mocked his inexperience had turned into a sweet girl, docile and caressing.

They stayed like this for a while and Sandor tried not to blush under her stare, then she leaned on her elbow, a half-smile on her lips.

"You will come back to see me again," she whispered.

It was not a question, for she was sure he had loved what had happened between them. Her lips curled up in a triumphant smile when he cleared his throat. _She thinks I'm embarrassed._

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Because you liked it. Fraila can say what she wants, but I'm better than anyone with green boys."

He rolled on his side so that she could see both sides of his face, the scarred one and the unburnt. She did her best not to flinch.

"I don't think I'll come back," he replied, staring hungrily at her offered breasts.

"Why?"

She smiled, imagining he was taunting her, but when she realized how serious he was, her usual frown came back.

"You're the one who fucks green boys," Sandor explained, locking eyes with her. "And I'm not a green boy anymore."


	11. Like a dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're not here to talk about armors, are we?" Sandor asked Ser Jaime, then he wished he could take back his remark, so insolent towards his liege lord's son.  
> Jaime chuckled. There was something about him – his constant smile, his eyebrow raised, his haughty casualness – that warned people he might not be serious. Or that he mocks us. Jaime let his eyes fall away, a smile pulling the corner of his lips.  
> "We're waiting for Symon, boy. I told him to come with us. Three horsemen hurrying through the streets of King's Landing, chasing pyromancers, as if the demons of the Seven Hells had been let loose. Tell me, Clegane, how does it sound?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, who edited this chapter despite a bad cold... You're the best!

Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls almost formed a halo around his head, contrasting with the dark color of the high-backed chair he was sitting in; a wide smile spread on his handsome features as he observed Sandor who stood in front of him, trying not to gape.

"Ser Jaime," he said politely, wondering what the Kingslayer wanted with him.

Tywin's son had invited Sandor in the Kingsguard's quarters and he had let him enough time to examine the large bedroom furnished with mahogany chairs and table and ancient weapons adorning the walls, before he started talking.

"Have you heard of the Mad King's plan to burn the city?" Jaime asked. "The wildfire, prepared by the Alchemists' Guild and hidden in caches throughout King's Landing? Of course, you have. Father told me you heard about it during his meeting with King Robert. Well, Varys' little birds reported that two pyromancers named Garigus and Belis escaped the Red Keep and now hide in the city. For some reason, Father told me to take you on this mission. Do you know why?"

His detached tone sounded a bit provocative, as if he wanted to test Sandor's reaction, but the boy knew better than to let some knight, even famous, impress him.

"Because I'm good at chasing people," he answered a bit too quickly.

Ser Jaime sneered. _He doesn't take me seriously._

"So you're good at chasing people?" he said, stammering in disbelief. "You seem so young... Who did you chase?"

"The plunderers. The two men King Robert hanged in Fishmonger's Square."

The blond knight leaned forward, a half-smile on his lips.

"You mean the poor bastards my father served up to King Robert, in order to save my head?"

Sandor didn't know the correct answer, and the memory of the two men swaying from the gallows pole was too fresh not to make his stomach churn; he therefore decided to avoid Jaime's question.

"Your lord father caught them stealing, ordered them to stop and to follow us. When they gave us the slip, I volunteered and I went after them. With Master Symon."

Jaime sat back and crossed his arms about his chest.

"I talked to the old Symon, Clegane. He said you're a resourceful... and surprising lad."

With that, he drummed his fingers on the table where he had left parts of his armor. Sandor found the jangling of the gorget against the greaves slightly annoying. _What did Symon tell him, exactly?_

"Done. You'll come with me, Clegane."

He looked at Ser Jaime and tried to remember what Fat Jeyne had told him about Tywin's children, when he was in Casterly Rock. _'There's something weird about the twins, Sandor. Never managed to find out what it was... The truth is, they believe they're different. They share some secret and no one, even in the castle, knows what it is. The twins take pleasure in that, they love the idea that no one knows except them. Whatever it is, this secret makes them believe they're superior.'_

He frowned. One who saw Ser Jaime or his sister Cersei – their blond hair, their noble features, their stately bearing – couldn't imagine their golden heads harbored a mystery. For some time, Sandor had pondered on Fat Jeyne's words, and thought the darkest secret Cersei could keep was the recipe of the ointment she used to keep her skin smooth. _Mayhap I was wrong and she's more than a lady obsessed by her looks._ Jaime pushed himself from his seat and began to check the pieces of armor on the table.

"We'll leave the castle as soon as we're ready," he announced, without ever looking at Sandor. "I'll meet you in front of the stables."

* * *

Chasing two men he imagined old, weak and unarmed, hiding in the biggest city of Westeros seemed strange. He did his best to conceal his increasing unease, as he left the room of the Maidenvault he shared with Master Symon, his long strides and the clang of his new armor arousing interest among the members of the Lannister host. Once in the inner yard the Sack had turned into a gigantic and messy encampment for the Lannister, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn troops – the departure of the Stark host to lift the siege of Storm's End barely helped and there were canvass tents everywhere – soldiers and idle Bannermen looked hard at him; he ignored them and he lengthened his stride until he reached the stables. Ser Jaime welcomed him with an approving nod.

"You look better with that armor than with the rusty equipment you wore when you arrived," he commented.

The young member of the Kingsguard made a flourish inviting Sandor to turn around so that he could see all the pieces of armor Sandor had bought in the upper part of the Street of Steel. Symon had helped him choose, and Sandor was rather proud of the armor he had picked; however, now that Ser Jaime made him spin on his heels, he felt like a stupid girl showing her new dress.

"Father says you still grow up. It's a pity that such a fine armor will be soon too small and too tight for you," Jaime sighed.

He was not very comfortable with the idea of Tywin talking about him with his son – _about my growth?_ – and he frowned. As they stayed in front of the stables, Sandor had to shield his gaze from the blinding sun.

"We're not here to talk about armors, are we?" he asked, then he wished he could take back his remark, so insolent towards his liege lord's son.

Jaime chuckled. There was something about him – his constant smile, his eyebrow raised, his haughty casualness – that warned people he might not be serious. _Or that he mocks us._ Jaime let his eyes fall away, a smile pulling the corner of his lips. "We're waiting for Symon, boy. I told him to come with us. Three horsemen hurrying through the streets of King's Landing, chasing pyromancers, as if the demons of the Seven Hells had been let loose. Tell me, Clegane, how does it sound?"

Sandor shrugged. _He's a fool._ Symon finally showed up and they came in the stables to pick their horses. Once on horseback, Sandor put his helmet on and followed Ser Jaime. At the gates, when the young knight explained why they left the castle, the sentries didn't recognize Sandor. They saw the brand new armor, the sparkling greathelm, the fine stallion he mounted, but they didn't saw the scars anymore. He was just a squire Ser Jaime had chosen for his uncommon strength and skills. It felt strange to go unnoticed for a change, under a thin layer of steel. _My armor may reflect the sunbeams, it doesn't make me a knight in shining armor. Knights only exist in songs. It's just a lie commoners keep saying because they're buggers and because they like to delude themselves. And lords like it even more, because the stupid idea of a brave knight rescuing people justifies the power they have on smallfolk._

The gates opened and they entered the city. Its hustle and the rancid smell of the streets made him feel dizzy. Beggars and peddlers swarmed about the gates and they soon gathered around the three horsemen, some identifying Jaime and gesturing at him. Once more, the blond knight laughed, while Sandor tried to avoid the tiresome men and women; his horse's hooves slipped on the wet and dirty cobblestones.

"Where are we going to?" he shouted, the beggars' supplications half-covering his high-pitched voice.

"Where would you go, if you were an alchemist on the run?" Jaime retorted, leading his horse through the ragged crowd and seemingly enjoying the commoners' attention.

Jaime smiled at a toothless old woman who held out her hand in a begging gesture, then headed straight ahead to the nearest street.

"To the Guildhall of the Alchemists?" Symon suggested.

As they arrived in the street facing the gates, Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear his companions despite the noise.

"Certainly not!" Jaime answered, greeting a girl who stared at them from her balcony.

The young woman coyly smiled back and leaned against the guardrail, revealing the top of her breasts. Jaime swiveled on his saddle to look at her and bowed theatrically, to the girl's great pleasure. _He just knows how to play the game_ , Sandor mused. The realization sent a pang of jealousy in his chest, before he felt Jaime's eyes on his figure.

"Do you intend to spend the day with your greathelm on?" he asked Sandor while pulling the reins so that the squire could catch up with him.

Sandor reluctantly lifted the visor of his helmet, holding onto the idea that, even without the piece of metal hiding his nose and cheeks, his scars were barely visible. _Maybe I should wear it the next time I go to the brothel._

"So where are we going to?" he insisted, narrowing his gaze.

"Why don't you take a wild guess, boy?" Jaime teased him. "Since you're good at chasing people."

Sandor pulled the reins at the end of the street they were in; Jaime followed suit and Symon, turned around to join them as soon as he saw they had stopped.

"The men we're looking for... Do they have family in King's Landing?" he asked Jaime.

The young member of the Kingsguard shook his head.

"As far as I know, Garigus and Belis don't know anyone here."

"So they probably hide in some inn and we're going to check every tavern of the city?" Sandor said.

"You're right, boy! We'd better start right now, for there are lots of places to visit."

"That's something the Gold Cloaks should do!" Symon protested, imagining the number of taverns they would have to search.

"How can I put it, Symon?" Jaime sighed. "The ancient and noble organization of the Gold Cloaks has known some difficulties lately, since my dear father's arrival in King's Landing. It seems that the City Watch has been... decimated. King Robert appointed a new Commander who recruits and trains soldiers, but in the meanwhile, we'll do their job."

A smug smile on his face, Jaime led his horse to the junction of three streets.

"Wait a minute!" Sandor exclaimed, immediately ashamed by the commanding tone he had used with Tywin's son. "We should visit all the jewelers' shops and ask the usurers, instead of searching the taverns."

"Why in Seven Hells should we do that?"

"Because they were in a hurry when they escaped the Red Keep," Sandor explained. "When you're on the run you don't take any chest of gold, if you have one. So they took jewels or precious items they found in the castle and could hide under their clothes, and now they'll try to sell these things, especially if they want to fly from the capital."

Jaime puckered up his full lips, slightly nodding his head. _Is he skeptical or does he agree with me?_

"The boy is right," Symon rasped.

"Sounds like you already planned your evasion," the blond knight commented, laughing.

Stone-faced under his greathelm, Sandor didn't move and held his stare. Symon cleared his throat loudly, as if he wanted to warn Jaime it was a slippery matter. _The clothes and boots I wore were the only things I took from Clegane's Keep, the day I ran away._

He shifted nervously on his saddle and clutched to the pommel, trying to regain his composure. The young man seemed to realize his blunder and went serious.

"You're very observant. Uncle Gerion told me that," he said, by way of apologies. "We're going to Coppersmith's Wynd."

* * *

In the usurers shop, the musty smell made the Kingslayer wrinkle his nose. Symon stayed outside with the horses, observing the surroundings while Jaime and Sandor came in to question the usurer. As a matter of fact, there were two men sitting behind a small table, talking quietly. Sandor didn't understand what the men said, and guessed it was Valyrian. As the only opening was small, darkness engulfed the room in shades of brown, but a tallow candle burning on the small table lit up the usurers.

One had deep wrinkles and a grey beard, while the other one was smooth-faced; both had the same piercing gaze under shaggy eyebrows and a rugged jaw line. _A father and his son, living and working together._ He remembered how the servants kept repeating he looked like Lord Clegane, before he got his scars; neighbors and customers told this young man he was the spitting image of his father, and he probably didn't care about it. _Bugger. He doesn't know how lucky he is._ As Jaime stopped in front of the table, Sandor felt his fingers slowly curl into balled fists.

"Welcome, Sers. How can we help you?" the son asked with a hint of foreign accent, while standing up.

Perhaps they had recognized Jaime, for the father hastily got on his feet and gave him a nervous bow. A Lannister paying a visit to an usurer was both unexpected and ironic.

"We have a few questions about your customers," Jaime announced. "Did you notice something strange since King Robert's arrival? Something unusual?"

The two men looked at each other, confused. The greybeard asked his son a question in Valyrian and his son immediately turned to Jaime.

"My father asks what you mean by 'strange', Ser."

"A man, rather old, looking like he was going to shit his pants, trying to sell jewels or plates," Jaime explained.

After the Sack, some servants of the Red Keep had reported that the precious tableware Aerys used had disappeared and Jaime had made the connection after Sandor suggested to ask the jewelers and moneylenders. Another muttering in Valyrian forced a smile out of the young knight; he sensed that, after several inconclusive visits in jeweler's shops, they would finally learn something. Without any warning, Jaime took the purse hanging from his belt and put it down on the table. Hearing the coins jingling, the two men briefly turned to look at the heavy purse, then went on talking. The young knight crossed his arms about his chest and sighed.

"Boredom should always be noisy and demonstrative," he confessed, glancing at Sandor.

"Well, Ser... Such a man came here..." the young man answered.

In the meanwhile, his father extended his arm to take the gold Jaime had left on the table, but the knight's commanding tone stopped him before he could reach the purse.

"Don't be so hasty, old man. I want proofs."

Once more the usurer and his son exchanged a puzzled look, before turning to Jaime. The father touched the young man's arm in an approving gesture and let him go in the back shop. During his son's absence, he stared at Jaime, then at Sandor, caressing his beard and very solemn in his patched tunic. The young man came back with a purse bigger than Jaime's and deftly untied the strings. Then, with a sigh, he emptied the purse on the table, near the tallow candle. Sandor gaped.

A brooch and a golden chain had landed on the worm-eaten table with a jangling sound. The chain's thick links imitated a rope. The brooch depicted the Targaryen sigil, with its tiny rubies forming a three-headed dragon standing out against obsidian. Jaime turned to Sandor, a triumphant smile on his face, then locked eyes with the usurer.

"What did that man look like?" he asked, stepping forward so that he almost towered above the old man who had sat down again behind the table.

"Well..." the young man replied, glancing at the purse. "He was smaller than you, with a short beard... His hair and beard were white."

"Belis," Jaime whispered. "What happened?"

"He said he wanted to sell these jewels and my father gave him a good price."

"It goes without saying," Jaime commented, his voice exuding contempt and irony.

"Then the man walked away and he disappeared."

"But where did he go?" the blond knight insisted.

He glared at the usurers, disappointed by their lack of cooperation.

"We don't know," the old man said firmly, stressing the last word. It sounded like it was the only sentence he knew in the Common Tongue.

"Was he afraid?" Sandor asked abruptly.

As he had been quiet from the beginning, his question surprised the usurers and Jaime. They all turned to him.

"Did you see him in the neighborhood before his visit or after he came?"

The old man shook his head while his son observed Sandor carefully.

"The man seemed rather... nervous," he said, visibly looking for words. "We had never seen him before that day and we didn't see him since he sold these jewels. He came yesterday."

"When he entered your shop, was he breathless? Or sweating streams?" Sandor asked again.

"No. I don't remember he was sweating."

The young man's eyes fell on the purse again, but Jaime was quicker and seized it.

"I'm afraid that's not enough information, my good fellow. Maybe I'll change my mind if we get hold of this man, but meanwhile I'll save my gold for someone else."

He spun on his heels and went to the door, leaving the two usurers frustrated. Sandor followed in Jaime's footsteps. Outside, Symon welcomed them with impatience and expectation in his eyes; all this vanished when the master-at-arms noticed Jaime's discomfiture.

"Belis was here," Jaime explained, chuckling darkly, "but those fools don't know where he's hiding. Why don't usurers ask questions to their customers?"

"Probably because they are usurers, Ser," Symon offered, patting his horse's neck.

"And what were those questions about a breathless Belis?" Jaime asked Sandor, frowning.

"If you had soldiers after you – including a member of the Kingsguard – would you choose to walk half an hour in the streets or would you go to the nearest moneylender's shop? Would you take your time or would you walk as quickly as you can?" Sandor's reasoning seemed to convince Jaime, who slightly nodded his head.

"He's not very far," Symon rasped. "We should examine the neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb."

* * *

There were half-a-dozen taverns in the streets surrounding the usurer's shop; they searched each one, Jaime asking questions to the owner and one of his companions coming in with him while the other one stayed outside. Symon and Sandor silently agreed on escorting Jaime to the tavern one after the other. As they visited the fourth tavern – a timber frame house with its façade on the street and the gable on a back alley – it was Sandor's turn to wait in the street, keeping a close eye on their horses. The Sack had been an ordeal for the inhabitants, not only because of the violence they had suffered that day; the destruction and fires had ruined the population, disorganizing handicraft and trade, forcing the poorest fringe to beg and to pilfer. The fine horses of the royal stables, even after exhausting weeks spent on the roads of the realm were tempting for them, and Sandor didn't want one of the animals to end up in a bowl of brown.

All of a sudden, a throaty scream inside the tavern startled him. Then there were more shouting and Sandor wondered if he should come in and help his companions, though Jaime had forbidden him to move away from the horses. When he heard more noise on the third floor of the timber frame tavern, his eyes scrutinized the façade, trying to understand what was going on and if Jaime or Symon were in danger.

"Here he is!" Symon exclaimed. The master-at-arms' raspy voice came from an open window of the third floor.

"He escaped!" Jaime bellowed in frustration and Sandor immediately spotted an old man bestriding the guard rail of a balcony in the back alley and trying to reach the window of the house across the back alley; it was not completely reckless, even for a man of his age, as the balcony nearly touched the building across the narrow street.

Forgetting Jaime's orders to stay near the horses, Sandor ran to the front door of the house where the pyromancer had sneaked in and he took two steps at a time in the wobbly staircase; he nearly shoved a little girl, but when he heard shouting and protestations on the third floor, he understood that his prey had accidentally met the house's inhabitants. Sandor violently pushed open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth on its hinges. From where he was, he saw a woman threatening the alchemist with a poker; a child hung on tightly to her ragged skirts while an old man, older than the pyromancer and probably ill, was lying on a pallet.

"Who are you?" the woman asked Sandor, glancing at him, but still keeping the intruder at bay.

"The king sent us to catch this man. He's... a criminal."

Despite the fact that Jaime seemed to burden himself with the pyromancers' arrest instead of following Robert's orders, Sandor thought preferable not to give her more details. Sensing the woman's hesitation was perhaps his only chance, the bearded man stepped forward; she threw herself on him and struck him with the poker; despite his arms raised in a protective gesture, the pyromancer couldn't avoid the blow. The woman missed his head but her makeshift weapon landed on his forearm with an awful noise. The alchemist fell on the floor, screaming, while Sandor subdued the woman: she flailed at first, then stopped moving and dropped the poker.

Still holding her firmly, he noticed the fine lines on her stubborn forehead; she might be still young, but hardships had left their marks on her face. Around him, he saw what most of the inhabitants of King's Landing worked for: a small room, with two windows and its quasi-absent furniture. There was a fireplace near the pallet, with scorched vegetables in a blackened pot. The only ornament was a big green stain on the white washed ceiling, because the roof leaked. That detail reminded him of a saying in the Westerlands: _'rain always falls harder on a leaking roof'._ Sandor wondered how they managed to live there. _They live on the brink of destitution_ , he thought. _No, they barely survive._ The little boy he had seen hanging on his mother's skirts was now huddling up against the old man's side, and his feverish gaze told Sandor that these people didn't eat their fill. He let go of the woman, who stared at his armor and immediately gave him a sheepish look.

"I didn't know, Ser. Forgive my-"

"I'm no Ser," he answered curtly, wondering how he could help them and realizing that there was nothing he could do.

She took in his face – partly hidden by the greathelm – and gaped when she noticed how young he was.

"Thank you for protecting us from-" she said tentatively, pushing aside her jet-black hair.

"Don't thank me," he replied a bit more stiffly than he intended. "Seems that you protect yourself very well."

He grabbed the alchemist's shoulder and forced him to stand up; the man whimpered softly and hardly struggled as they left the small room to go downstairs. Sandor looked up before reaching the second floor and he saw the dark-haired woman observing him with a curious gaze. _She's a fool_ , he thought. _We don't protect anyone, we just_ _let them live their miserable life and look at them struggling for food in a half-ruined city._

Sandor shoved the alchemist out of the building, then inside the tavern where Jaime and Symon waited for him. The customers had deserted the place and the owner stared at them from the kitchens, instinctively putting as much space between himself and Jaime as possible.

"How did you do?" Symon asked him, glancing at the pyromancer's broken arm.

Sandor shrugged and kicked the old man so that he fell on his hands and knees, crying and begging.

"Too late, Wisdom Belis," Jaime announced, stepping forward.

He had unsheathed his sword – one of the most beautiful weapons Sandor had ever seen, though he found it a bit too sophisticated for real fights – and the blade was covered with blood.

"No! Ser Jaime, please... Listen to me!" The alchemist's protestations sounded like the squeak of a mouse. "I- I have gold," he stuttered, trying to sit up and looking at his captors one after the other. "I have gold upstairs. Spare me and you'll be rich."

Still holding his sword, Jaime raised one eyebrow in disbelief.

"Remember me, Belis? I am a Lannister. I am as rich as can be."

His way of articulating words was almost precious when he expressed his contempt, as if he took his time and enjoyed this feeling. _And his voice is soft, when he addresses someone he despises, like Tywin's._

"Your proposition is nearly an insult," Jaime added.

A desperate look in his eyes, Belis didn't seem to understand his words. "I have gold," he repeated, pleading.

"And I have steel," Jaime replied, leaning over the miserable pyromancer and stabbing him.

It all happened very quickly, Jaime's left hand seizing the old man while his sword dug deeply in his chest. The man who wanted to destroy King's Landing with wildfire collapsed on the floor and Jaime removed hastily his blade from Belis' torso before wiping it.

"As I said," he shouted to the owner, "I'll send someone with a cart to take the corpses and bring them back to the Red Keep. Don't move the bodies. How did you catch him, resourceful boy?" the blond knight said, turning to Sandor, before walking to the door.

Sandor still looked at the alchemist's dead body; Symon patted his shoulder and led him outside. Jaime's deep green eyes insisted and Sandor complied.

"I didn't really catch him," he explained. "Belis sneaked in a room where there was a woman, a child and an old man. The woman was threatening him when I came in. She broke his arm. I just prevented her from killing him."

"Surprising wench," Jaime commented, straddling his horse. "Was she to your liking?"

"I don't know," Sandor mumbled, making both his companions laugh.

"Do you know what happened upstairs?" Jaime went on, as they led their horses through the dirty streets. "These fools had stayed together. At first, they thought of taking different paths, but Belis was a coward and he finally stayed with Garigus, according to him. Anyway, they arrived together in this tavern, asked for separate rooms and always ate upstairs. The owner was growing curious about them and they would have moved before tomorrow."

He went silent for a short while, as a palanquin sheltering two rich women moved past them.

"Garigus wept for mercy," Jaime added, with a faraway look. "I gave him a quick death, which was rather merciful, compared to the alchemists' plan to burn the city."

Jaime stopped talking, but Sandor wondered why; was it because a peddler sang and shouted to sell his fish or because he was not as proud of himself as his words conveyed? He couldn't tell.

* * *

The sun set fire to the horizon when they crossed the gates of the Red Keep and Jaime insisted on telling his father the good news. Thus, the three of them ended up in the most comfortable room of the Maidenvault, where Tywin had his quarters; he listened to them from his armchair next to the empty fireplace, which carved mantel drew arabesques behind his head. In the end, once Tywin's curiosity was fulfilled, he told his son and his master-at-arms they may leave; Sandor stayed.

The boy tidied the room, arranged the numerous scrolls his liege lord had received since the Sack and got ready for serving the supper when Tywin stopped him.

"That will be all for tonight," he said softly. "We'll soon go back to the Westerlands and you should probably enjoy your time in the capital, boy."

Tywin pushed himself from his armchair with a sort of lazy sigh and went to the chest where he kept his gold, under Sandor's puzzled gaze. When he turned around to face his squire, the lord of Casterly Rock held a small purse; he weighed it up, staring at Sandor with a half-smile as if he still hesitated and finally crossed the room to put it in the boy's hands.

"Thank you, my lord," Sandor said mechanically, before realizing that, whether there were stags or dragons inside, he had never owned so much money.

Tywin stayed there for a heartbeat, observing the boy's surprise, and tentatively brushed his shoulder. The gesture in itself was strange, though it had nothing to do with Sandor's uncommon height – he was already taller than his master. It seemed unreal, because the last thing he expected from Tywin was endearment – even as a clumsy beginning of a pat on his back. His liege lord sensed the awkwardness of the moment: Sandor could tell it from the way his green eyes suddenly avoided his. He bowed slightly and walked away.

Sandor went back to the room he shared with Master Symon, sat down on his pallet and reflected; Tywin had given him money, had told him to enjoy his time in King's Landing. He was not a child anymore, he could read between the lines and take it as an encouragement to visit a pleasure house. Or he could save this money for rainy days, for the moment when he would avenge his family and himself by killing Gregor. _Maybe I'll need better weapons than these I already have. Maybe I'll need a horse to flee._ The images churned in his head again: his father, Ivy in her shroud... _No, not now._ He needed to get used to all this: the loss, the orders that lead you to kill people without asking questions, even the bite of steel when mail scratched his bare forearms...

Sandor clenched his jaw and got on his feet. He had to freshen up before striding along the Street of Silk. Not that he tried to satisfy some need or endeavored to do what Tywin expected from him; he wanted to prove himself that he could go whoring and behave as a soldier. His unease on the way to the brothel a few days ago and the persistent feeling of humiliation during his visit to Emerald had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He needed a sort of revenge.

He ignored the drummer's protestations about the festivities the Lannister host planned and crossed the gates – again – as a cart arrived in front of the sentries: a servant of the Red Keep brought back the corpses of the pyromancers. He looked ahead while the servant negotiated with the soldiers and moved forward, the heels of his boots hitting the cobblestones at a rhythmic pace. Inside the city, the restlessness ensuing the Sack had waned: the smallfolk kept struggling for food like before, except that they bustled about in a landscape where the most exquisite mansions stood alongside ruins.

Brushing the purse hanging from his hip with every step, Sandor lengthened his stride as he approached the Street of Silk. He soon identified the thick wooden door with a mandrake painted on the sign swaying above, and he used the door knocker. The old Naya opened and welcomed him with a knowing smile; he didn't pay any attention to her obsequious chatter and looked around. There were probably fewer customers that night than the first time, for most of the girls were in the entrance hall, including the natives from the Summer Isles, wearing see-through dresses of different colors, fake smiles plastered on their faces. Among them, he recognized the plump whore named Heeva and Emerald; as soon as she saw him, the brown-haired girl puffed herself up, triumph provoking a small tug at the corner of her lips. _She knew I would come back._

Naya had finally stopped talking after announcing the price she required: she waited for him to make his choice and to say a name. Sandor ignored the whores who tried to draw his attention by their giggling, ignored Emerald's insistent gaze and locked eyes with Naya.

"I can't remember her name. She goes by... I think it's a gemstone," he said.

Pretending not to remember Emerald was rude, but he didn't care. _As if she remembered the name of every man who fucked her._

"Oh, of course," Naya simpered, "you mean Emerald."

The old woman grinned and turned her head, ready to call the girl who had humiliated him. Sandor didn't need to look at the girls to know that Emerald strutted about, anticipating the money she would earn.

"No. She's not the girl I want to see tonight. I'm pretty sure there's another girl whose name is also a gemstone."

His peremptory tone left Naya dumbfounded. He could tell that the old woman remembered his visit – how could she forget a customer whose facial burns had allowed her to charge a bigger price? – and expected him to choose the same girl who had taken his virginity.

His decision looked like a whim, still, she swallowed and said quietly: "We have a Jayde. Maybe Jayde is the girl you remember."

Sandor nodded and raised his eyes to see the bunch of girls who had stopped whispering. Emerald, very straight in her pink see-through gown, seemed offended. When a rather plump girl with chestnut hair stepped forward, he gave Naya the stags she demanded and casually followed the whore. As he moved past Emerald, they locked eyes for a second and each one could measure the resentment the other one felt. Sandor had bottled up so much frustration and anger he couldn't envision what had just happened like a trick he had played on her, or like a victory. _In the end, there's no winner. Only a bitter girl who thought her beauty would bring her more coin tonight. And a bitter boy._

Jayde led him to a room similar to the one he had visited a few days ago: the bed was so large he almost filled the room. The girl tried to chatter at first, asking where he was from and what was his name.

"I didn't came here to hear you talking," Sandor answered and the girl's outward confidence vanished.

Wordlessly, she took off her shoes, removed her dress without making a fuss and lay down on the bed. Her plump legs and her sagging tits with large brown nipples didn't arouse him as much as Emerald's thin body, but it was too late. He felt like he had to do this, like a test proving he was as manly as anyone else in the host, and the whore's appeal didn't really matter. With an incline of his head, he motioned her to get on her hands and knees, then he positioned himself behind her. The girl let out a sigh but he didn't care. Emerald wanted him to fuck her that way. _Like a dog._

* * *

On his way back to the Red Keep, Sandor realized it was late when he saw the waning crescent moon high in the sky; most people were asleep or locked themselves in their houses. In the deserted streets, his footsteps echoed strangely and he found the silence comforting. _Silence is so rare in King's Landing._ For a fleeting moment, he fancied himself in the quiet woods surrounding Clegane's Keep, in the chestnut grove where he had spent hours during his childhood. When he closed his eyes, he could almost believe there were tall trees instead of the lopsided buildings: only the noise made by the soles of his boots against the cobblestones reminded him he was in the biggest city of Westeros and not in the secluded wood he loved so much when he was ten.

He dreamed of feats of arms and chivalry at that time. _I was a fool. I thought I could became as good a knight as Florian or Aemon the Dragonknight._ The forest was his refuge, his realm, and whenever someone disturbed the peacefulness of the chestnut grove, he knew it could only be Gregor, looking for him. _Tracking me, hunting me as if I was a prey._ He had learned to go unnoticed in the woods and to stay perfectly silent, hidden in the trees, while his brother lost his temper in the undergrowth. Most children in Westeros loved to play hide-and-seek with their siblings. Not Sandor. For it was not a game.

The sentries let him cross the gates without asking any question now that he was known as Lord Tywin's squire and he made his way through the Tully tents sheltering soldiers of the Riverlands. As he progressed toward the Maidenvault, he heard people singing and laughing; as Talbert the drummer had said, there was another feast celebrating the so-called victories of the Lannister host. He almost sneaked in to avoid the drunken men who would certainly ask him where he was and why he came back so late. Now that he had left the brothel, he wondered what Fat Jeyne would have said about his wanderings in the Street of Silk. _She's a fool as well. She behaved as if she could prevent all these things to happen to me, but she couldn't. The man who will make me a better person isn't born yet._

Once the biggest room of the Maidenvault and his noisy occupants were behind him, he relaxed his shoulders. It was only when he heard music and roaring laughs coming from an open door on his left that he realized there was more than one feast in the Maidenvault that night; he lengthened his stride.

"No, Clegane, please come!" a merry voice suddenly shouted as he walked past the door.

He stopped mid-stride, realizing it was Jaime; ignoring his liege lord's son was not an option. _Maybe I can just come in and stay in some corner, before escaping once they'll be in their cups._ He cautiously stepped in the vaulted room, where servants had brought trestles and benches. Apart from the musicians, there were only members of the noble families of the Westerlands, eating and drinking with Jaime. _At least, Gregor isn't here._ He noticed Lord Marbrand and a maid, engaged in heavy petting in the darkest corner of the room.

Sandor stayed by the door, leaning against the wall, observing Jaime's guests, but the tipsy blond knight clearly wanted to draw attention on him. Forgetting the flagons of wine he had knocked back, Jaime got on his feet and walked around the trestles to have a good look at Sandor; all the Bannermen's eyes were on him as he welcomed Sandor with a drunken grin. Tywin's son's golden curls stuck to his damp forehead.

"Where have you been, boy?" Jaime asked him. "We were waiting for you!"

If the contemptuous gaze of Lord Sarsfield and the sneering laugh escaping Lord Hamell were any indication, Jaime Lannister might be the only man of the assembly who really enjoyed his presence. Sandor shrugged and the raucous laughter went on.

"Dear friends," Jaime announced, turning to his guests and patting Sandor's shoulder, "I know some of you thought that he's young and inexperienced. I made the same mistake at first... But he has a good nose for certain things, he knows how to find a runaway, how to track him down."

One of the lords barked loudly, making the assembly laugh.

"Congratulations, boy!" another one exclaimed, apparently impressed.

"My lords, may I- may I present you the younger son of the late Lord Clegane," Jaime added, the heavy dose of alcohol he had drunk making him stammer.

Some men barked along, like their sons did in Casterly Rock whenever they wanted Sandor to get pissed. Jaime swayed and leaned on Sandor for fear of collapsing on the glazed tiles; then, the boy saw the blond knight's smile widened in anticipation of his next joke.

"May I introduce the young Clegane!" he shouted. "The boy who hunted down Aerys' creatures in King's Landing with me, who proved to be as gifted for hunting as the dogs of his sigil... My lords, I give you the Hound!"

Bewildered, Sandor turned to Jaime who patted his back and congratulated him. People had given him various names: 'Monster', 'Freak', 'Burnt boy' but no one had called him 'Hound' so far. In Jaime's mouth it could be either a good jape or the recognition of his skills; with his constant smile, nobody could tell.

"The Hound! The Hound!" the guests bellowed, slamming the table with their fists.

Sandor was at a loss, ignoring if it was an insult or a nickname, or both. All he knew was that once a member of the host earned a nickname, he kept it for years. _Might as well get used to it._

"The Hound! The Hound!"

With a mischievous smile, Jaime tousled his hair, nearly scratching the area behind his good ear. _Like a dog._


	12. Older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the day he had arrived in Casterly Rock, exhausted and starving, people had treated him like a pawn, like a freak, like a curiosity who defeated older boys. The squires rejected him; the maester wished to know more about his scars; Tywin wanted him to become a warrior – the Warrior made flesh, Symon had told him once. Even the master-at-arms who had shared so much with Sandor, saw the boy as a companion when he wanted to go whoring more than a comrade in arms. Among the keep's inhabitants, Fat Jeyne had been the only one to treat him like a child, sometimes unbeknownst to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, who supported me while I wrote this story.
> 
> This last chapter is dedicated to Hugo, who would never suspect me to write this... I hope things will get better for you.

_Three months later..._

"We'll soon be home!" Serrett exclaimed, as the shape of Casterly Rock appeared on the horizon.

A ragged mist wrapped the rocky spur standing against the greyish sky; on its top, the fortress looked impregnable. _Is this place my new home?_ Sandor was skeptical; Casterly Rock had been a goal to reach when he had escaped Clegane's Keep, then a shelter. He doubted this place, no matter how beautiful it was, overlooking Lannisport and the Sunset Sea, would be more than a shelter for him. _It's only temporary, this place doesn't mean much._

Sometimes, he wondered where he would spend the rest of his life: he knew he didn't want to end up in Casterly Rock's armory, like Master Symon, and Clegane's Keep belonged to Gregor. _So where will I go?_ The only rational answer was to let Lord Tywin decide. Sandor was his squire, after all. The day he had collapsed in front of the gates of Casterly Rock, he had given up his freedom to get his liege lord's protection. The proud fortress looming over the sea was not his home; it was just a place where he could stay and be safe until he found something better.

* * *

Tywin's decision came the morning after their arrival, as Sandor fought not to rub his eyes. He now slept in what had been Banefort's room, near his master, and woke up at dawn, when Tywin required a basin of water to wash his face and a tray full of fresh food to break his fast. That morning, Sandor had left his pallet with a strange sensation, nearly a lump in his throat, but he couldn't figure out why. Yawning, he shrugged it off and walked to his master's bedchamber.

"You'll join me in the Golden Gallery, once your chores are done," Tywin announced him and Sandor immediately sensed it was some serious matter.

Sitting on the edge of his massive bed, the lord of Casterly Rock only had his breeches on, but the boy thought he didn't need to wear his best armor and finest cloak to look regal. Despite his drawn features, Tywin had a sort of determination in his eyes as if he had woken up with that idea and stuck to it. Sandor bowed and hurried to the kitchens, where he didn't see Fat Jeyne – he wanted to talk to the old cook, but he couldn't get the meeting with Tywin in the Golden Gallery out of his mind.

Still pondering on Tywin's decision about his future, he returned to his master's bedchamber then got rid of his morning duties – opening the window, emptying the chamber pot, cleaning the room, making the bed – before walking to the Golden Gallery. _But why the Golden Gallery instead of some other place?_ The Gallery reminded him of Gregor's visit, when his brother had asked for his return to Clegane's Keep. Gregor was still in Casterly Rock, probably sleeping it off in some corner of the Great Hall. He might ask again for Sandor's return, but Tywin was not the kind of man who reconsidered his decisions.

Sandor knocked at the door of the Golden Gallery and came in once he heard Tywin's even voice. The Lord of Casterly Rock pointed to a spot three steps behind his cross-framed folding seat and told him to stay still. Brow furrowed, Sandor obeyed as Tywin sat down. His master let out a sigh and, from where the boy was, he saw him folding his arms. _What is he waiting for_?

All of a sudden, a knock at the door partly gave him the answer. The tall and graceful Lady Cersei appeared on the threshold, stepped in and cautiously shut the heavy door behind her. With an incline of her head, she greeted her father, walked to the armchair across his seat and only hesitated when she spotted Sandor next to the windows, in the back light. King Robert's betrothed finally settled down, made sure her blond braid rested on her left shoulder, then smoothed her skirts without trying to conceal her boredom.

"Come here, Clegane," Tywin said. "I want you to meet my daughter. I don't think you've ever met."

"Yes, Father, we met. I told your little squire how his secret attack impressed me when he fought these squires in the yard."

With that, she looked at Sandor and gave him her best sardonic smile. Remembering how she had humiliated him in the kitchens, months ago, he clenched his fists.

"Very well," Tywin went on, "very well."

Something in his honeyed tone suggested that his daughter's remark didn't fool him.

"As soon as we're ready, we'll ride to King's Landing, to celebrate your marriage with Robert Baratheon. But... I won't stay forever with you, my dear. My duty is to rule the Westerlands as the king confirmed my title and I intend to go back to Casterly Rock as soon as I can. Your Uncle Kevan delt with day-to-day matters, but you know him..."

He stopped talking and crossed his long legs, observing his daughter's reaction. Sandor still didn't understand why Tywin needed his presence. Standing behind his master, Sandor couldn't see his face but he looked at Cersei. The morning light provided by the large windows played on her golden hair and sent tiny sparks on the silver embroidery of her dress; her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she began to understand what her father had in mind, but still refused to believe it was true. She slowly shook her head.

"Why is your squire still here, Father?" she finally asked, her eyes on her lap. "Doesn't he have some work to do for you?"

Her arrogance barely hid her unease; Cersei suddenly smiled and locked eyes with her father, not without panache, for she well knew that, whatever he had decided, she would have to consent. Tywin uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, as if he was going to tell her a secret.

"I called Clegane because he will be your sworn shield."

The news came across like a bucket of cold water in Cersei's face. Her features stayed perfectly still but she took a sharp intake of breath. _So this is it. Her sworn shield._

"No," she simply answered.

Her refusal seemed to embolden her and her green eyes shone with indignation. Sandor cleared his throat noisily.

"My lord, my lady... I should probably leave-"

Without turning around to look at him, Tywin lifted his hand in the air in a commanding gesture.

"No, Clegane, you'll stay."

"Father, do you think his presence will prevent me from saying why I don't want this boy as my sworn shield?" she hissed.

"What do you think? People always remind him he's burnt. He's thick-skinned, he can stomach whatever malicious words you're going to say."

 _A pawn, again_ , Sandor thought. _But this time it's in the game he plays with his daughter._

"I will be the queen!" Cersei protested. "I will be the most influential person apart from the king and you want me to walk through the corridors of the Red Keep with him?"

With a flourish of her hand, she showed Sandor; her hand fell on her lap when she heard her father repressing a laugh. It was so unusual for her or for anyone who knew Tywin that her eyes widened in surprise.

"May I ask what is it you find so funny?" she asked after regaining her composure.

"Realizing you fancy yourself as one of the most influential persons of the realm, my dear. I thought you were smarter."

He stood up and leaned over her, placing his hands on either side of the back of her armchair, so that she looked like a trapped animal.

"You might be the queen in a few weeks, but you will always be my dutiful daughter. It means you'll follow my decisions. Clegane will stay in Casterly Rock until his training is complete. The day I'll say he's ready, he'll become your sworn shield. When I deprive myself of a loyal, obedient boy and a remarkable warrior, I expect a little more gratitude."

Cersei looked daggers at her father and Sandor, ill-at-ease, contemplated the boots he had bought in King's Landing before their departure. The dark pebble-grained leather contrasted with the polished wooden floor and its glimmering surface, reminding Sandor he was out-of-place.

"You think queens are influential persons, is that correct?" Tywin added, his tone exuding irony. "Pray tell, my daughter, when was the last time Queen Rhaella led her troops to the battlefield? What did she do for the Seven Kingdoms?"

"She gave birth to Prince Rhaegar," Cersei answered defiantly.

As her father slightly turned, Sandor could see his profile and noticed a half-smile on his lips. Bending over, Tywin's head was next to Cersei's but despite their likeness, their expressions were radically different; paler, the girl looked already defeated while he savored his victory.

"She gave birth to Rhaegar. Exactly," he said. "Queens give birth to a bunch of little princes and princesses. If you ever want to have a semblance of power in King's Landing, you'd better give Robert an heir. The sooner the better."

Tywin stood straight and went back to his folding seat.

"Who will be my sworn shield," Cersei asked, swallowing her pride, "until this one comes of age?"

"I don't know yet," Tywin confessed. "When I decided to give you Clegane as a sworn shield, I overlooked this problem. Still, many knights of the Westerlands will fight for the honor of serving you. I'll have an abundance of choices."

She nodded curtly and stood up to take leave. "Clegane," Tywin called, "See Lady Cersei to her chamber. It will be your duty one day."

Sandor bowed slightly and followed Tywin's daughter as she left the Golden Gallery. Once in the corridor, she briefly turned and looked hard at him, wondering if he would dare to stay on her heels or not. _If she thinks I will disobey Tywin, she's wrong._

With a furious rustle of skirts, she rushed forward, forcing a servant to move aside; whatever she did, hurrying in the corridor, Sandor's long strides enabled him to catch up with her. When he heard her ragged breathing on the top of the staircase leading to her bedchamber, he found the situation so absurd it was almost laughable. All he had to do to infuriate Cersei was let his footsteps resonating behind her to remind the girl of his unwanted presence. She gave out a sigh of relief when she reached the door of her bedchamber.

"My lady," he said tentatively, "your brother Ser Jaime asked me to tell you how much he's pleased to see you soon."

She froze, spun on her heels and for the first time, she looked at him straight in the eyes. Jaime had not told him anything about his twin sister, but Sandor wanted to see her reaction.

"So my brother talked to you?" she asked, raising one eyebrow. "Dear old Jaime... He has a knack to make friends with lame ducks and lost dogs."

His eyes narrowed until Tywin's lecture and Cersei's mortification came back to his mind. All of sudden, he remembered what Fat Jeyne had told her the day she had mocked his scars. _'Was your day that bad, my lady?'_ To her great surprise, he smiled a twitching half-smile.

"Have a good day, my lady," he said before leaving her dumb-founded.

His words strangely echoed Fat Jeyne's cutting remark. Down the stairs and across the corridors, he hurried to the kitchens. _I need to see her, I need to talk to her._

He expected to hear Fat Jeyne grumbling under the pointed arch that led to the kitchens, but there were only the high-pitched voices of the boys and girls who worked under her orders. He came in. Smoke crept over the large room, making him cough. An army of boys and girls ran from the hearth to the never-ending table, cursing, shouting, jolting each other like mad hens in a poultry yard. His arrival caused even more confusion, when one of the youngest kitchen maids, a black-haired girl with a thin braid, ran to him.

"Sandor Clegane of Clegane's Keep!" she exclaimed. "I know you would come back. Remember me?"

"Willa of Pansy Mill, is that right?"

The scrawny little girl nodded cheerfully before turning to the others.

"Come here, Maria, he's back! Tomaz, Helory, bring me some bread and soup for him!"

Listening to this girl of ten giving orders made him realize something went amiss in the kitchens.

"Where is Fat Jeyne?" Sandor asked.

"Later," Willa replied, tugging at his sleeve, "sit down and eat."

The two boys working in the kitchens brought a bowl of soup and some bread. Sandor sat down on the bench and looked suspiciously at the blackened crust, while all the kitchen boys and girls gathered around him, taking the occasion not to work.

"Helory forgot the bread in the oven, but it's good once you dip it into the soup," Willa said encouragingly.

Sandor did as she commanded and swallowed the bite of soaked bread; the bread was overdone and the soup had a watery taste. Then, the kitchen boys and girls began to throw questions tick and fast.

"So what have you seen?"

"Did you see the Red Keep?"

"Did you see the king?"

"Is it true you killed a man?"

"No, he didn't kill a man! Talbert is a liar."

"Gods, let him taste the soup!"

Around Sandor, their ugly and somewhat grotesque faces formed a merry circle where he was but a stranger they admitted once in a while, because Fat Jeyne liked him or because he could be useful. They tolerated him, perhaps more easily than the other squires who were high-born off-springs, but he was a stranger nonetheless. If his horseman boots were out-of-place in the Golden Gallery, they also looked incongruous on the greasy red tiles of the kitchens. _I don't belong here_ , he thought.

"You look taller," a feminine voice commented.

This one, dark-haired, older, and almost pretty for a kitchen maid, was Maria. He remembered a skinny girl, with bony limbs and a flat chest, who couldn't look at his scars, but Sandor wasn't the only one who had changed during the last months. A bit less gaunt, she had tits now and she held his gaze, unless he looked hard at her. Noticing how he leered at her, Maria blushed and Willa elbowed her friend.

"Older, mayhap," she went on, biting her lip.

They chuckled and one of the kitchen boys whispered to the other something that sounded like a saucy jape. Maria rolled her eyes, mimicking one of Cersei's favorite expressions.

"How old are you?" one of the girls asked Sandor, shoving Willa.

"I'm-" He stopped short of saying 'two-and-ten' when he remembered his name day just before leaving King's Landing. Nobody had greeted Sandor that day, because nobody knew. Why would my name day be different from the other days? "I'm three-and-ten," he finally answered. "And you, girl, how old are you?"

Ignoring the blond-haired girl who had asked for his age, he looked at Maria.

"A bit older," she said, puckering up. "I'm four-and-ten."

"I know what it is," Willa exclaimed. "It's your voice. You don't speak like a little girl anymore. Your voice broke!"

Excitement made her talk faster; Sandor frowned and push aside the bowl of soup.

"You didn't notice it?" she went on, surprised. "Come on, say something!"

"I- I don't know," he said.

"Look!" Willa said triumphantly. "Like I said: his voice broke!"

He couldn't tell if his voice had changed during the past months and the members of the host who had spent their days with him had not mentioned it. Nobody noticed the transformations that happened from day-to-day; one had to leave people for a few months to measure the changes that affected them. The realization made Sandor wonder if this change was a good one, if his voice sounded better now, when Maria's question got him out of his pensive mood.

"Did you- Did you really kill a man?"

She glanced at him like she imagined a noble lady would do with knights and lords, except that she underestimated Sandor's despise for simpering airs.

"I killed several men," he simply answered, wiping his mouth.

"How many?" one of the boys eagerly questioned him. "What was it like?"

Sandor went silent and contemplated the bowl. Some soup, as watery as broth, remained inside.

"Dirty. It was pretty dirty."

He abruptly pushed himself from the bench, making a girl cringe, and looked around.

"So where is Fat Jeyne?" he asked.

"She's gone," Willa explained. "Ser Kevan sent her away."

"But why?"

"Oh, you know Fat Jeyne. She always says what she has in mind. Lady Cersei came here to complain, one day and Fat Jeyne put her in her place... Then... Lady Cersei probably told Ser Kevan to dismiss Fat Jeyne, for she left the day after."

"Where did she go? Is she in Lannisport?"

Willa shook her head.

"Don't think so. Fat Jeyne is not from the Westerlands, you see; she always said Lord Tywin had come back with her when he left King's Landing. Must be somewhere on the Goldroad."

He clenched his jaw, realizing he would most likely never see her again. _I could have met her on our way back to Casterly Rock, but now it's too late._ When he imagined her waddling along the Goldroad, her meager belongings in a bundle, he felt a lump in his throat.

"Another cook came," the little girl added, "an old man, he was. Didn't stay, though... So we're on our own and we do our best. Do you think my soup was good?"

Behind Willa, he saw the girls whispering and giggling. Two of them finally shoved Maria so that she ended up in front of Sandor, blushing.

"Can you help us?" Maria asked. "I mean... We need more wood for today's luncheon with the Bannermen. Can you help us and carry some more logs? Like you did, once."

By the way she positioned herself in front of his right side and avoided to look at his burns, Sandor knew she intended to use him without giving anything in return. _She will smile and tilt her head and pucker up to get what she wants, but I'll always be scarred and ugly._ He chuckled darkly.

"I have my own chores. I'm Lord Tywin's squire, now." Then he turned to Willa. "That soup is watery, girl."

Sandor was about to leave when he rued his bluntness. He liked the sensation of being in the kitchens, with people who didn't understand him but didn't judge him either. Fat Jeyne's absence wouldn't change that.

"Willa," he called, softening. "I'm sure you can do better than that."

The little girl's eyes widened as he walked to the door. Outside, squires were already training in the yard, listening to Symon's husky voice.

Since the day he had arrived in Casterly Rock, exhausted and starving, people had treated him like a pawn, like a freak, like a curiosity who defeated older boys. The squires rejected him; the maester wished to know more about his scars; Tywin wanted him to become a warrior – the Warrior made flesh, Symon had told him once. Even the master-at-arms who had shared so much with Sandor, saw the boy as a companion when he wanted to go whoring more than a comrade in arms. Among the keep's inhabitants, Fat Jeyne had been the only one to treat him like a child, sometimes unbeknownst to him. _I didn't understand it at that time, but that was what she was doing when she gave me some food after the dungeon, or the day Cersei humiliated me. The day I told her I was leaving..._ He didn't want to think about that moment now and his nails dug deeply in his palms. _These days are gone. I'm on my own, now._

He suddenly looked down at his boots standing out against the ocher sand; for the first time that morning, he could say that they didn't seem out-of-place. If he didn't belong to the Golden Gallery, nor to the kitchens, he certainly was at his place in the yard.

There was only one thing to do, now that Fat Jeyne had left Casterly Rock: carry on and not become attached to anyone. He had learned this lesson the hard way: people could vanish into thin air, or die, or simply disappoint you.

_And the end, you're on your own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the persons who read and commented this story.


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